He remained for some time lost in admiration, then began to turn the points of his moustache first up and then down.
“What do you think of it, lad? Is it good enough for a president of a republic?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hold your tongue, then, can’t you?”
“Very good, Mr ... President ... as you please.”
Suddenly honest Bloemstein turned round and fairly snorted at the poor youth. “Just shave this side off,” he blustered, pointing to the right half of his countenance.
The youthful Figaro hastened to comply, having heard that a madman must not be contradicted or he may become violent. His request having been complied with, the President rose in order to admire himself in the mirror. He covered first one and then the other half of his face with one hand, in order to convince himself which style was most becoming to the presidential dignity.
The attractions of the clean-shaven half at length prevailed, and the last remaining hair was removed.
“What have you got to get?” asked Bloemstein, when this was done.
“Ten centimes ... Mr President.”