“Yes, sir; you are quite right,” said Wimble, replacing the brush in the pot, and proceeding to rub the soap into his customer’s cheeks, throat and chin with a long, lissome finger.
Silence.
“Wonderful stiff, wiry beard yours, Mr Brime, sir. Pleasure to shave it, though. I hate your fluffy beards that lie down before the razor. Yours is a downright upright one, which meets the razor like crisp grass. What a difference in beards. Not in a hurry, sir, I hope?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll do it well, sir, so as to make it last. Ah, many’s the time I’ve shaved poor Mr Gartram, sir! Hard man to please over pimples, while a nick used to make him swear terrible, and there are times when you can’t help just a touch, sir.”
“No,” said Brime, thinking of slips with the scythe.
“Good customer gone,” said the barber, resuming the brush once more, but still keeping clear of the lips. “Always a shilling for going up and shaving him, Mr Brime. Yes, a capital customer gone.”
Here the shaving pot was set down, and a razor taken out of a loop to re-strop.
“Bad job for me, Mr Brime. Won’t affect you, I suppose, sir?” continued Wimble, finishing off the keen-edged razor on his palm with a loud pat, pat, pat.
“Not affect me?” said the gardener, sitting up sharply; for the barber had touched the right key at last, and the instrument began to sound. “But it will affect me. How do I know what’ll take place now, sir? Saved up my little bit o’ money, and made the cottage comfortable and fit for a wife.”