Scholar took pity on them. He had managed to shave twice already, despite the sea running. Now he offered the loan of his razor to one man; and many others asked to be next. Some of them sneered, both at the razor and at those who wished to use it. At any rate Scholar, carefully propped, had his shave; and others—each using his razor, each handing the razor back to him when finished. Thus, at least, they acted to begin with.
"I wonder," said Mike, approaching him, "if ye would lend me the loan of your razor, Scholar, if it's not too much to be asking ye."
"Certainly," answered Scholar, and Mike had his shave, then gave the razor back. Another man had it, and thereafter there was no more talk of the razor for an hour or two, when suddenly several were asking where it was, and it was impossible to tell who had it. Mike was greatly upset.
"I don't like it at all," he said, "not at all. Here's Scholar being kind to youse, and there's some of you fellers can't see anything without putting it in your pockut."
He looked round the crowd. Harry of the mad eyes sat humped, nursing his knees, and smiling in front of him. Jack was smiling too, a cynical smile it might be, however. Johnnie, over his shoulder, asked them to shut up about that razor. Mike's eye rested with suspicion on Mad Harry, but he was unshaven; still, that didn't signify. Cockney, with a clean bandage on his head, tried to thrash out the question of who had used the razor last. It was a task more thorny than discovering who turned out the gas for fun at the Philanthropists' Teetotal Hand Out. Little Michael, beginning to peer under his eye-patch now—with an eye and a half, as it were—grumbled a great deal about the disappearance. It would give a man who didn't know them such a poor opinion of cattlemen! Mike turned his troubled face to Michael, puzzling over him; with no vocabulary to express his feelings he wondered dumbly if Michael really had so high an opinion of a "Push." The Inquisitive One drew Scholar aside anxiously, and with intense eagerness asked him: "You don't think I got it, do you?"
"No, no," said Scholar. "That's all right—don't worry about it."
"No, but I wouldn't like you to think I had it—straight I wouldn't."
Mike was gloomy all that day. At night there was again a sing-song, but it was not a very great success. One man, called upon for a song, said he couldn't sing; another said: "Get on your feet and sing. What the hell's the matter with you? Are you sitting on the razor?" Another, who had danced a breakdown without being asked, was told that he was no dancer, and that if that there razor could only be found he'd have his throat cut.
Mike watched to see which men found these recurrent references merely amusing, which looked disgusted, which appeared guilty; but it was impossible even to begin the winnowing in that way. A flutter of more pleasant talk ricocheted about, Molls and Biddies, and what not—names of streets, descriptions of where they lay. One man stood up and sang the praises of a certain lady friend. Mike's eyes opened wide and he stared; his face gloomed. He shot out a hand, pointing at the man.
"Do you know what I'm going to tell you about her?" he said. Faces turned to see what Mike had to say, and he said. The man looked belligerent for a moment.