Turrentine folded the suit and laid it on the counter.
“I think them clothes’ll fit ye,” he said. “An’ I’ll th’ow in this hyer necktie you looked at. I always th’ow in a necktie with a suit. That all?”
“Well—no,” Ross repeated his phrase. “I want to buy the best razor you’ve got in the shop.”
With a sudden movement that might have been excitement or even rage, Sam Beath took off his hat and cast it on the floor beside his chair. Turrentine bent down to get from under the counter a tray of razors, setting it on the boards and inviting his customer’s attention. Beath could scarcely bear to look at the two men facing each other across these bits of duplicated and reduplicated death, so tremendously did the juxtaposition excite him. He felt as he had sometimes on the hunting trail when the kill was imminent—as though he must cry out. Jabe and Ross were oblivious, trying, choosing, drawing their thumbs lightly over edges.
“I believe I like that un,” Ross said finally. “What say?”
“You’ve got a good eye for a blade,” old Jabe agreed, taking the razor in his fingers. “That thar’s by far the best un in the lot.” He opened and held it up, so that a stray gleam of sun winked wickedly upon the steel. “You could cut a man’s head off with that, slick an’ clean, ef ye had luck strikin’ a j’int—an’ I allers do have luck.”
“I wasn’t aimin’ to put it to no such use,” Ross commented gently. “An’ yit, when you’re a-buyin’ a tool, hit’s but reasonable to know what its cay-pacities may be. I’ll take that un.”
“Now—is that all?” Jabe put his query with the half-smile of a man who might easily suggest something else. He laid the razor with the other purchases.
“Is it honed, ready to use?” inquired Ross.
“Why, yes,” agreed old Jabe in a slightly puzzled tone. “A few licks on a strop or your boot-laig’ll make it all right.”