“Oh no.”
Then he looked in his little glass as he steadied himself with one hand, and then in his highly-pitched voice he said, as he looked round at me with a faint laugh, and passed his hand over his chin—
“It’s a very good job, isn’t it, that I don’t have to shave? I’m sure I couldn’t use a razor with the ship rising and falling like this.”
Thud! Whish!
The little round window was darkened for a few moments, and Mr Preddle held on with both hands.
“What’s that?” he cried, excitedly. “Is there any danger?”
“Danger? No,” I said with a laugh. “It was only a wave. Good job you hadn’t opened your window. Don’t you ever shave, then, sir?”
“No,” he said with a sigh; “my beard never came.”
“Then it never will,” I remember thinking to myself as I looked at his smooth cheeks and chin, while he carefully combed and brushed his hair as he stood in his trousers and shirt, and then opened a little box and took out three neckerchiefs, all different in colour.
“Which one would you wear, Mr Dale?” he said, as he looked up at me.