“It’s a remarkably heavy instrument,” observed Michael, and turned to consider his friend’s disguise. “You must shave off that beard of yours,” he said.
“My beard!” cried Pitman. “I cannot shave my beard. I cannot tamper with my appearance—my principals would object. They hold very strong views as to the appearance of the professors—young ladies are considered so romantic. My beard was regarded as quite a feature when I went about the place. It was regarded,” said the artist, with rising colour, “it was regarded as unbecoming.”
“You can let it grow again,” returned Michael, “and then you’ll be so precious ugly that they’ll raise your salary.”
“But I don’t want to be ugly,” cried the artist.
“Don’t be an ass,” said Michael, who hated beards and was delighted to destroy one. “Off with it like a man!”
“Of course, if you insist,” said Pitman; and then he sighed, fetched some hot water from the kitchen, and setting a glass upon his easel, first clipped his beard with scissors and then shaved his chin. He could not conceal from himself, as he regarded the result, that his last claims to manhood had been sacrificed, but Michael seemed delighted.
“A new man, I declare!” he cried. “When I give you the window-glass spectacles I have in my pocket, you’ll be the beau-idéal of a French commercial traveller.”
Pitman did not reply, but continued to gaze disconsolately on his image in the glass.
“Do you know,” asked Michael, “what the Governor of South Carolina said to the Governor of North Carolina? ‘It’s a long time between drinks,’ observed that powerful thinker; and if you will put your hand into the top left-hand pocket of my ulster, I have an impression you will find a flask of brandy. Thank you, Pitman,” he added, as he filled out a glass for each. “Now you will give me news of this.”
The artist reached out his hand for the water-jug, but Michael arrested the movement.