“You devils! You young devils!” This and much more as Sefton was punted across the carpet by skilful knees.
“‘The bleatin’ of the kid excites the tiger.’ We’re goin’ to make you beautiful. Where does he keep his shaving things? [Campbell told.] Beetle, get some water. Turkey, make the lather. We’re goin’ to shave you, Seffy, so you’d better lie jolly still, or you’ll get cut. I’ve never shaved any one before.”
“Don’t! Oh, don’t! Please don’t!”
“Gettin’ polite, eh? I’m only goin’ to take off one ducky little whisker—”
“I’ll—I’ll make it pax, if you don’t. I swear I’ll let you off your lickin’ when I get up!”
“And half that mustache we’re so proud of. He says he’ll let us off our lickin’. Isn’t he kind?”
McTurk laughed into the nickel-plated shaving-cup, and settled Sefton’s head between Stalky’s vise-like knees.
“Hold on a shake,” said Beetle, “you can’t shave long hairs. You’ve got to cut all that mustache short first, an’ then scrape him.”
“Well, I’m not goin’ to hunt about for scissors. Won’t a match do? Chuck us the match-box. He is a hog, you know; we might as well singe him. Lie still!” He lit a vesta, but checked his hand. “I only want to take off half, though.”
“That’s all right.” Beetle waved the brush. “I’ll lather up to the middle—see? and you can burn off the rest.”