The Argosy, September 1915 — page 76: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

290) sure it wasn’t inflammable,” he added. “But I'd hate to turn myself into a torch. Besides, I might lose it all, and that won’t do—yet.”’ Then came to the boatman, as often to other persons, an idea. He turned to his tool-box and extracted there- from an instrument which he regarded for an instant with doubtful eyes. Gritting his teeth, he faced the mirror once more. You can bale out an ocean with a thimble if you have sufficient time and persistence. A task relatively similar is that of trimming a beard with a pair of wire-cutters. Sam set himself to it. Compared with the operations of the discarded knife, it was happily free from serious pain. But it was mournfully slow. A wire-cutter is de- signed to sever one wire at a time, so its jaw, though powerful, is short. To the boatman it seemed an almost im- possible feat to make the instrument cut more than one hair at a time. He toiled doggedly, bending close to the little glass and twisting his head into such positions as promised the most favorable opportunity for attack. Patience was finally rewarded with a certain degree of expertness. The beard slowly diminished in length to an extent visible to the naked eye. Whether he was really achieving a Van Dyke he did not dare to guess, but he was at least bringing it to a point at the chin, and was cropping away some of its shagginess on the cheeks. 3 The mustache was a distinct prob- lem. Twice he caught his upper lip between the jaws of the cutter and— swore. “There!” he exclaimed at last. “ If anybody objects to the effect let him say so at his own risk. Before I'll trim any more hair with a wire-cutter I'll let the blamed thing grow until— yes, even until Carrie Catt is Presi- dent!” Stripping himself of a gray flannel shirt, he next performed ablutions in a tin water-bucket, alternating soap THE: ARGOSY. with sand as he tried to reduce the erime that clung to his hands. Again the wire-cutter came into play as he manicured his nails. Then there was a new period of torture when he drove the comb through locks that had not been raked for weeks. To dress was the simplest part of all. He arrayed himself briskly in broadcloth and linen, even submitting patiently to the iron grip of the collar that encircled his neck. Huis quarters were so cramped that he sat most of the time in order to avail himself of the services of the mirror; but this was an inconvenience that gave him little concern. ‘The worst was over, he re- flected, until— “For the love of Mike!” That remark was in celebration of the discovery that he possessed every garment of a gentleman save a tie. He viewed his image with a look of despair. His raiment fitted him as- tonishingly well, as nearly as he could judge. He had managed to button his collar into place without soiling it. The shirt-front was still immaculate. But no tie! “You need a nurse,’ he told him- sely glumly. “ What are you going to do now?” Yet even at this catastrophe he would not acknowledge himself beaten. “IT suppose it’s possible,” he mut- tered, “ to go ashore as I am and sand- bag a waiter, or even a guest if I can catch one alone. But that has risks, and I don’t feel like taking too many to-night. Any kind of a tie would do; I wouldn’t be particular. Come! Get clever now and invent something. Remember the wire-cutters! ” Twice he made a search of the pock- ets of his clothes, faintly hoping that one of them might conceal the article he lacked but his quest was unre- warded. ‘Why does a man have to wear a necktie?’ he raged. ‘ And if he feels that he positively must wear one is he really a man? Talk about your slaves to fashion! You never see a necktie COMMICGLOOOKS (C@