He started to rub her hand against his cheek. Saxon jerked away with a little cry of disappointment, then examined him closely.
"It hasn't shaved at all," she said.
"It's a fake, that's what it is. It cuts the hide, but not the hair. Me for the barber."
But Saxon was persistent.
"You haven't given it a fair trial yet. It was regulated too much. Let me try my hand at it. There, that's it, betwixt and between. Now, lather again and try it."
This time the unmistakable sand-papery sound of hair-severing could he heard.
"How is it?" she fluttered anxiously.
"It gets the--ouch!--hair," Billy grunted, frowning and ****** faces. "But it--gee!--say!--ouch!--pulls like Sam Hill."
"Stay with it," she encouraged. "Don't give up the ship, big Injun with a scalplock. Remember what Bert says and be the last of the Mohegans."
At the end of fifteen minutes he rinsed his face and dried it, sighing with relief.
"It's a shave, in a fashion, Saxon, but I can't say I'm stuck on it. It takes out the nerve. I'm as weak as a cat."
He groaned with sudden discovery of fresh misfortune.
"What's the matter now?" she asked.
"The back of my neck--how can I shave the back of my neck? I'll have to pay a barber to do it."
Saxon's consternation was tragic, but it only lasted a moment.
She took the brush in her hand.
"Sit down, Billy."
"What?--you?" he demanded indignantly.
"Yes; me. If any barber is good enough to shave your neck, and then I am, too."
Billy moaned and groaned in the abjectness of humility and surrender, and let her have her way.
"There, and a good job," she informed him when she had finished.
"As easy as falling off a log. And besides, it means twenty-six dollars a year. And you'll buy the crib, the baby buggy, the pinning blankets, and lots and lots of things with it. Now sit still a minute longer."
She rinsed and dried the back of his neck and dusted it with talcum powder.
"You're as sweet as a clean little baby, Billy Boy."
The unexpected and lingering impact of her lips on the back of his neck made him writhe with mingled feelings not all unpleasant.
Two days later, though vowing in the intervening time to have nothing further to do with the instrument of the devil, he permitted Saxon to assist him to a second shave. This time it went easier.
"It ain't so bad," he admitted. "I'm gettin' the hang of it. It's all in the regulating. You can shave as close as you want an' no more close than you want. Barbers can't do that. Every once an' awhile they get my face sore."
The third shave was an unqualified success, and the culminating bliss was reached when Saxon presented him with a bottle of witch hazel. After that he began active proselyting. He could not wait a visit from Bert, but carried the paraphernalia to the latter's house to demonstrate.
"We've ben boobs all these years, Bert, runnin' the chances of barber's itch an' everything. Look at this, eh? See her take hold. Smooth as silk. Just as easy... There! Six minutes by the clock. Can you beat it? When I get my hand in, I can do it in three. It works in the dark. It works under water. You couldn't cut yourself if you tried. And it saves twenty-six dollars a year. Saxon figured it out, and she's a wonder, I tell you."
