This latter put a half-lathered face out of the window as Presley cantered through the gate, and waved his razor with a beckoning motion.
“Come on in, Pres,” he cried. “Nobody's ready yet. You're hours ahead of time.”
Presley came into the bedroom, his huge spur clinking on the straw matting. Annixter was without coat, vest or collar, his blue silk suspenders hung in loops over either hip, his hair was disordered, the crown lock stiffer than ever.
“Glad to see you, old boy,” he announced, as Presley came in. “No, don't shake hands, I'm all lather. Here, find a chair, will you? I won't be long.”
“I thought you said ten o'clock,” observed Presley, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Well, I did, but——”
“But, then again, in a way, you didn't, hey?” his friend interrupted.
Annixter grunted good-humouredly, and turned to strop his razor. Presley looked with suspicious disfavour at his suspenders.
“Why is it,” he observed, “that as soon as a man is about to get married, he buys himself pale blue suspenders, silk ones? Think of it. You, Buck Annixter, with sky-blue, silk suspenders. It ought to be a strap and a nail.”
“Old fool,” observed Annixter, whose repartee was the heaving of brick bats. “Say,” he continued, holding the razor from his face, and jerking his head over his shoulder, while he looked at Presley's reflection in his mirror; “say, look around. Isn't this a nifty little room? We refitted the whole house, you know. Notice she's all painted?”