“Better burn it,” suggested Tod.
“Won’t it make an awful smell?”
“Who cares? You can go away if you don’t like the smell.”
“I shall save a piece for Edna Blake.”
“Rubbish, Johnny! What good will it do her?”
“She may like to have it. Especially if she never sees him again.”
“Make haste, then, and take a lock. It’s quite romantic. I am going to put a match to it.”
I chose the longest piece I could see, put it into an envelope, and fastened it up. Tod turned the hair into his wash-hand basin, and set it alight: the grate was filled up with the summer shavings. A frizzling and fizzing set in at once: and very soon a rare smell of singeing.
“Open the window, Johnny.”
I had hardly opened it, when the handle of the door was turned and turned, and the panel thumped at. Hannah’s voice came shrieking through the keyhole.