Wherefore he blinks, winks, weeps, twitches, condenses his countenance, and squirms; and perchance the barber's scissors clip more than intended—belike an outlying flange of ear.
"Um—muh—ow!" said Penrod, this thing having happened.
"D' I touch y' up a little?" inquired the barber, smiling falsely.
"Ooh—uh!" The boy in the chair offered inarticulate protest, as the wound was rubbed with alum.
"That don't hurt!" said the barber. "You will get it, though, if you don't sit stiller," he continued, nipping in the bud any attempt on the part of his patient to think that he already had "it."
"Pfuff!" said Penrod, meaning no disrespect, but endeavouring to dislodge a temporary moustache from his lip.
"You ought to see how still that little Georgie Bassett sits," the barber went on, reprovingly. "I hear everybody says he's the best boy in town."
"Pfuff! Phirr!" There was a touch of intentional contempt in this.
"I haven't heard nobody around the neighbourhood makin' no such remarks," added the barber, "about nobody of the name of Penrod Schofield."
