The Spawer made a feeble shuffle of legs under the blankets, and smiled with the seraphic content of one who has done his duty.
"Nay, ah s'll want to see ye on end, an' all," Jeff said sternly, "before ah gan mi ways. Come noo, Mr. Wynne—one, two, three!"
Thus adjured, the Spawer found strength to raise his eyelids after a few moments of bland inertness under Jeff's regard, and turned out affably (with them down again) on to the pegged rug alongside.
"That 's better," said Jeff, with conciliatory admiration.
"Is it?" the Spawer inquired sweetly, sitting down on the bedside to think over the matter, and rubbing form contemplatively into his hocks. "Oh! ... Then get me the third razor from the right-hand side of the case, and I 'll kill myself. Also the strop and the brush and jug and soap-tube...."
"D' ye mean a shave?" asked Jeff, with some curiosity.
"Merely another name for it," the Spawer told him.
"What div ye want ti get shaved for?" Jeff persisted.
"Oh!" ... The Spawer sifted a few replies under rapid survey, as though he were rolling a palmful of grain, and picked out one at random. "... For fun."
"Ah thought ye was n't gannin' to shave no more while ye 'd gotten that there piece o' yours written!"