“There we are, sir,” said Sam, who seemed to be quite in his element. “Don’t squirm, sir; I won’t cut you, nor hurt you either. I was taught shaving by a first-class hand.”
“Don’t talk so much, Sam,” said Frank impatiently. “We want you to shave this Arab gentleman carefully and well.”
“Well, ain’t I trying my best, Master Frank? Look at that, and look at that, and that. Razor cuts beautifully.”
As he spoke he scraped off with long sweeps the white, soapy foam, which came away darkened with tiny swathes of blackish-grey stubble.
“I call this a regular big shave. Don’t hurt, do I, sir?”
The Arab uttered a grunt which might have meant yes or no.
Sam took it to mean the latter.
“Thought not, sir. That’s fine shaving-soap, sir; he—mollient; softens the stubble and the skin at the same time. My word! this is a prime razor. Only fancy, Mr Frank, being out here, shaving a native!”
“Will you keep your tongue quiet!” whispered Frank angrily. “This is a serious matter. Mind what you’re doing, and don’t talk.”
“Don’t ask a man to do impossibilities, sir,” said the man appealingly; “did you ever know anyone shaved without the operator talking all the time? It’s natural, sir, and seems to make you shave cleaner. I’m a-doing the very best I can. I must talk, or I should get nicking his skin and spoil the job.”