Sybarite gravely. "To begin with, I'm going
to shut up shop in just five minutes; and if you don't want to show
yourself on the street looking like a difference of opinion between a
bull-calf and a fountain pen--"
"Gotcha," interrupted George, rising and putting away handkerchief and
mirror. "I'll drown myself, if you say so. Anythin's better'n letting
you talk me to death."
"One thing more."
Splashing vigorously at the stationary wash-stand, George looked
gloomily over his shoulder, and in sepulchral accents uttered the one
word:
"Shoot!"
"How would you like to go to the theatre to-night?"
George soaped noisily his huge red hands.
"I'd like it so hard," he replied, "that I'm already dated up for an
evenin' of intellect'al enjoyment. Me and Sammy Holt 'a goin' round to
Miner's Eight' Avenoo and bust up the show. You can trail if you
wanta, but don't blame me if some big, coarse, two-fisted guy hears me
call you Perceval and picks on you."
He bent forward over the bowl, and the cubicle echoed with sounds of
splashing broken by gasps, splutters, and gurgles, until he
straightened up, groped blindly for two yards or so of dark grey
roller-towel ornamenting the adjacent wall, buried his face in its
hospitable obscurity, and presently emerged to daylight with a
countenance bright and shining above his chin, below his eyebrows, and
in front of his ears.
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