“Yes, Jerry, you’re right; I forget myself sometimes,” sighed Dick.
“Sometimes! Why, you’ve forgot yourself altogether. Come now, let me give you a spick up, and make you look a little more like old times. Now then, just a little shampoo.”
“No, no.”
“And the scissors put round your ’air a bit. Shave wouldn’t hurt you neither.”
“I wish you wouldn’t worry me, Jerry.”
“I won’t worry you; only you can’t see a lady as you are, you know—Don’t want to—keep your eyes shut, please—to see you a bit o’ dandy, like Mr Lacey. Feel nice and cool, eh?”
Dick nodded, and suffered Jerry to place his hands on each side of the basin of water planted upon his knees, so as to keep it steady.
“Nothing like a soft sponge, cold water, and a bit o’ scented soap—those are Mr Lacey’s—to comfort you up. Of course, it depends on the oppyrator. I’ve seen women soaping little kids and making ’em squirm and yell, when I’ve felt as I could ha’ washed the poor little things and made ’em laugh all the time.—This is one of Mr Lacey’s towels, too—he wouldn’t mind me bringing ’em. I say, though, you are a deal better. Fortni’t ago you’d have shrunk like if I’d touched you even as tender as that.”
“What’s that—pomatum?”
“Pomatum! As if I’d use pomatum to a gent’s ’air or a private’s either. No, that’s a cream made from a prescription I gave a ’airdresser half a soverin’ for. Violets is nothing to it in the way o’ smell. I won’t quite shampoo you to-day, but give you just an extra brush. You want freshening—that’s all—and I don’t want you to be tired. Have a shave?”