"Halloa!" cried Peter. "How are you? I'm going to the mills to see my girl—want you to shave me—got over my joke; funny, wasn't it?"
A sudden ferocious desire awoke in the good-natured barber—some long-past inheritance of African lust for the blood of an enemy.
"Don't like to kiss with a rough beard," said Peter. "I'll pay—got money—now."
"Come in," said Josiah. "Set down. I'll shut the door—it's a cold morning."
He spread the lather over the red face. "Head back a bit—that's right comfortable now, isn't it?"
"All right—go ahead."
Josiah took his razor. "Now, then," he said, as he set a big strong hand on the man's forehead, "if you move, I'll cut your throat—keep quiet—don't you move. You told I was a slave—you ruined my life—I never did you no harm—I'd kill you just as easy as that—" and he drew the blunt cold back of the razor across the hairy neck.
"My God!—I—" The man shuddered.
"Keep still—or you are a dead man."
"Oh, Lord!" groaned Lamb.