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 moustache we're so proud of. He says he'll let us off our lickin'. Isn't he kind?'
M'Turk laughed into the nickel-plated shaving-cup, and settled Sefton's head between Stalky's vice-like knees.
'Hold on a shake,' said Beetle, you can't shave long hairs. You've got to cut all that moustache short first, an' then scrope 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.'
The thin-haired first moustache of youth fluffed off in flame to the lather-line in the centre of the lip, and Stalky rubbed away the burnt stumpage with his thumb. It was not a very gentle shave, but it abundantly accomplished its purpose.
'Now the whisker on the other side. Turn
