Weary looked, stared, half rose from his chair.

"Holy smithereens! Quit it, Happy! You look like the devil by
lightning."

Happy, watching, seized the hand that held the razor; Cal, like a cat,
pounced upon the mirror, and Jack Bates deftly wrenched the razor from
Weary's fingers.

"Whoopee, boys! Some of you tie Weary down and set on him while I
shave," cried Cal, jubilant over the mutiny. "We'll make short work
of this toilet business."

Whereupon Weary was borne to the floor, bound hand and foot with silk
handkerchiefs, carried bodily and laid upon his bed.

"Oh, the things I won't do to you for this!" he asserted, darkly.
"There won't nary a son-of-a-gun uh yuh get a dance from my little
schoolma'am--you'll see!" He grinned prophetically, closed his eyes
and murmured: "Call me early, mother dear," and straightway fell
away into slumber and peaceful snoring, while the lather dried upon
his face.

"Better turn Weary loose and wake him up, Chip," suggested Jack Bates,
half an hour later, shoving the stopper into his cologne bottle and
making for the door. "At the rate the rigs are rolling in, it'll take
us all to put up the teams." The door slammed behind him as it had
done behind the others as they hurried away.