“How is it?” she fluttered anxiously.
“It gets the—ouch!—hair,” Billy grunted, frowning and making faces. “But it—gee!—say!—ouch!—pulls like Sam Hill.”
“Stay with it,” she encouraged. “Don't give up the ship, big Injun with a scalplock. Remember what Bert says and be the last of the Mohegans.”
At the end of fifteen minutes he rinsed his face and dried it, sighing with relief.
“It's a shave, in a fashion, Saxon, but I can't say I'm stuck on it. It takes out the nerve. I'm as weak as a cat.”
He groaned with sudden discovery of fresh misfortune.
“What's the matter now?” she asked.
“The back of my neck—how can I shave the back of my neck? I'll have to pay a barber to do it.”
Saxon's consternation was tragic, but it only lasted a moment. She took the brush in her hand.
“Sit down, Billy.”