"'I don't believe ye've got e'er a sweetheart. Come now.'

"'I have though.'

"'I don't believe ye.'

"'I have though. I was at church with her last Sunday.'

"Suddenly the man, looking hard at Davy, changed his tone to one of
surprise, and exclaimed:

"'Why, boy, ye've got whiskers! Ye hadn't them the last time I see'd
ye. Why, ye _are_ set up now! When are ye going to begin to shave?
Where's your razors?'

"''Aint begun yet,' replied Davy. 'Shall shave some day, but I 'aint
got too much yet.'

"As he said this, he fondled away at his whiskers. They were few in
number, but evidently of great value in his eyes. Then he began to
stroke his chin, on which there was a little down visible--more like
mould in its association with his curious face than anything of more
healthy significance. After a few moments' pause, his tormentor began
again:

"'Well, I can't think where ye got them whiskers as ye're so fond
of. Do ye know where ye got them?'

"Davy took out his pocket-handkerchief, spread it out before him, and