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 mustache we're so proud of. He says he'll let us off
our lickin'. Isn't he kind?"

McTurk laughed into the nickel-plated shaving-cup, and settled
Sefton's head between Stalky's vise-like knees.

"Hold on a shake," said Beetle, "you can't shave long hairs. You've
got to cut all that mustache short first, an' then scrape 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 mustache of youth fluffed off in flame to the
lather-line in the centre of the lip, and Stalky rubbed away the