“But why not?”
“No shape; no form. You’re too skinny. A young nigger ought to be plump, and shine like butter.”
“Well, I’ll oil myself,” said Frank, laughing as much at himself as at the doctor seated à la Turque so solemnly upon the hearthrug.
“But your hair, Frank, my boy. It’s brown and streaky. It ought to curl up more tightly than Bob’s beard.”
“I’ll put it in paper every night, and dye it at the same time as I do my skin.”
“H’m! Well, perhaps we might work it that way. If we can’t, we must shave your head too.”
“Barkis is willin’,” said the young man readily. “As to the sitting—look here: won’t this do?”
He seized the tongs from the fender, took a live coal from between the bars, dropped down sitting upon his heels halfway between the pair, but outside the hearthrug, and completed the Eastern picture in Wimpole Street by resting upon his left hand and making believe to be holding the live coal to the bowl of the Hakim’s pipe.
“Bravo! Splendid!” cried the professor. “A tableau vivant, only wanting in colour and clothes to be perfect in all its details, and then—”
And then the group remained speechless in horror and disgust, for they suddenly became aware of the fact that Sam had silently entered with a letter upon a silver waiter, and had stopped short close to the door, to stand staring in astonishment at the living picture spread before his eyes. These seemed starting, while his brow was lined, the rest of his face puckered, and his mouth opened, at the same time his muscles relaxing so that the silver waiter dropped a little and the letter fell upon the soft carpet with a light pat which in the silence sounded loud.