“No, no; there’s nothing to shave.”
“Nothing! call that nothing? Why, I’ve known gents to go and be shaved reg’lar with not half your beard. Well, I’ll let you off for another day or two but I must touch up those finger-nails.”
Dick made a gesture, but it was all in vain. Almost before he knew it, Jerry had laid aside towel, brushes, and basin, and begun upon the nails, which he trimmed with wonderful dexterity, commenting the while on things in general.
“Look here,” he said: “if you want to keep things quiet, you’d better wear your hands in your pockets. Nobody as knows anything would believe your name’s Smithson, if he sees your hands.”
“Why?” said Dick, who felt half-amused.
“’Cause there’s so much breed about your nails. ‘Gift on the finger’s sure to linger; gift on the thumb is sure to come.’ Do you know he calls and sees Miss Deane and her aunt?”
“Mr Lacey?—of course.”
“I didn’t mean him. Lookers-on see most of the game. Wonder what Mr Lacey would say if I was to tell him all I know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing, sir. I dunno what he’d say; but I think I know what he’d do—scrunch Mr Mark like a walnut in a door-hinge!”