There was, therefore, some particular reason that made these prominent citizens shave on a Friday; could the reason be another change in the Government?
Quite a little crowd had gathered, by ones and by twos, round the hairdresser's shop; some were standing, others sitting, some smoking, others eating dried melon seeds—all were gravely looking at the barber, who was holding Bellacic by the tip of his nose and was scraping his cheek with a razor which kept making a sharp, stridulous noise as it cut down the crisp, wiry stubble hair of almost a week's growth. Then the shaver left the nose, for, as a tuft of hair in a hollow spot under the cheek-bone was renitent to the steel blade, he poked his thumb in his customer's mouth, swelled out the sunken spot and cleaned it beautifully. He was a real artist, who took a pride in doing his work neatly. He then wiped the ends on his finger, cast the soap to the ground with a jerk and a snap, then he rubbed his hand on the head of an urchin standing by.
The barber, who was as inquisitive and as loquacious as all the Figaros of larger towns, had tried craftily and with many an ambage to get at the information we were all so anxious to know; but nothing seemed to induce our clients to speak.
"I suppose," said he, with a pleasant smile, "I'll soon have new customers to shave?"
"Yes? Who?" quoth Markovic.
"Why, your sons, Uros and Milenko."
"No, not yet; they'll not be back before some months."
All conjectures and guesses, all suppositions and surmises were at last at an end. The barber, although he had been a long time about it, had finished shaving Bellacic; Markovic was now sitting down with the towel tied round his neck.
"This afternoon we start for Cettinje," said Bellacic, wiping himself.
An "Ah!" of satisfaction and expectation was followed by a moment of breathless silence. The barber stopped soaping his client's face and turned to look at Bellacic.