"It's the uncommon feelin' of water on you face what hurts you," retorted the barber as he left the doorway with reluctance and began making reckless slashes at his victim's neck in a fashion which threatened his Adam's apple.
The loungers dangling their legs from the high platform in front of the general merchandise store across the street, who had focused their attention with disconcerting steadiness upon Mr. McCaffrey from the time he had seated himself beside Nan, began to grow restless as half an hour passed and he made no motion of leaving.
Any intelligent person could learn a lady's business in half that time, and it looked to them as though "Sour-Dough" was maliciously prolonging their suspense.
So they beckoned him, slyly at first, then more openly as they saw he meant to ignore their signs. It was Nan who finally called his attention to their signals.
"They seem to want you," she suggested.
"It's nothin' very pressin'," Mr. McCaffrey answered sourly. "Waitin' is their reg'lar business."
