They allowed fully an hour of grace during which time the word "Fake" passed Gizzard's lips with increasing frequency as Sube sought to bolster up their faith by reading and re-reading the guarantee on the bottle.
"Astonishin' results, hey?" sneered Gizzard. "I should say they are astonishin'."
"Don't be in so much of a hurry," growled Sube. "We might of made a mistake in the time. Ol' Doc Richards, he said—"
An immediate adjournment was taken for the purpose of inspecting the side of the house. But, alas! It was hairless. And more, it didn't even smell.
Then the boys gave up.
They threw their pocket phials as far as they could, and stoned the large bottle with a vengeance that would have startled a Christian martyr. Gizzard's disgust was evidenced by a great deal of careless language feelingly delivered. But Sube was silent. His disappointment was beyond the reach of mere words. The pleasant vision in which he had reveled for a week burst with a result similar to that of over-inflating a bubble. And during the brief period while Gizzard was relieving himself with pleasing combinations of adjectives, Sube contemplated and rejected suicide, flight, old bachelorhood, and becoming an anarchist so that he might dynamite the Boon for Baldness factory. He was considering some sort of legal proceedings based on fraud and misrepresentation, when Gizzard nudged him to ascertain why they couldn't "catch her without whiskers."
After all, Sube had his life to live. There were other affairs besides those of the heart. And perhaps a brilliant piece of detective work might give him a standing that even a mustache would not have been able to effect.
"We gotta do some'pm," Gizzard rattled on. "She'll be at the church to-night, and here we ain't got any whiskers and can't do a thing."
Sube began to pull himself together. "We'll do some'pm all right," he muttered.
"Well, what?"