“Seems a pity, sir,” he said, as the three gentlemen sat together in the tent, a turned-up case forming the barber’s chair, upon which the doctor took his seat; “master’s got such a fine, thick head of hair.”
“Operate, Sam, operate,” said the doctor; and the next minute, comb in one hand, scissors in the other, the man was snipping away, and the doctor’s crisp, dark hair fell rapidly over his shoulders and down about him upon the cloth that had been spread.
Sam’s cutting was clever enough, and a pretty good transformation was produced even with the scissors, while, when the razor had done its part, and the finishing touches had been given, the doctor passed his hands over his head and then drew them over his long beard.
“Like a looking-glass?” said the professor drily.
“No, thanks. I know my features pretty well,” was the reply. “I shall not forget them.”
“But don’t you want to see the Hakim?”
“No,” said the doctor quietly. “How many years older do I look, Frank?” he added quickly.
“Twenty,” was the prompt reply.
“Quite,” said the professor.
“The clothes the Sheikh sent in, Sam,” said the doctor, after giving a nod of satisfaction. “Now then, let me finish the work, so that you may see whether it will pass muster.”