Percival Wilde

“ THE CUSTOMER. Don't kill me, man! Don't kill me! I'm not fit to die! I'm not ready! A minute! Two minutes! I'm too young! Don't kill—
(THE BARBER, still with his hand upon the other man's eyes, suddenly seizes a wet towel and strikes him across the throat with it. THE CUSTOMER faints. THE BARBER looks at him contemptuously; abruptly raises the chair to a sitting position; puts away the razor.)
THE BARBER. So your nerve gave way, John? Your nerve gave way? (He spreads the towel over THE CUSTOMER's face and roughly wipes away the lather.) ”

“ You really mustn't accuse me of being clumsy, sir. I'm not clumsy. If I cut you, it was quite intentional—like this! (Cutting him a second time.)
THE CUSTOMER. Damnation! Are you crazy?
THE BARBER. (Applying the styptic) No, sir, I'm quite sane. (THE CUSTOMER tries to sit up.) Oh, don't do that, sir! Don't do that! My razor is frightfully sharp!
THE CUSTOMER. (Panic-stricken) I want to sit up!
THE BARBER. Don't try it while the razor is at your throat, sir.
It is sure to be fatal. ”

“ At the rise of curtain, THE BARBER, a man of fifty, is discovered sharpening a razor, and whistling softly to himself. He finishes with the razor; seats himself in the chair, takes up a paper, and reads.
The door opens, and THE CUSTOMER, a flashily-dressed individual of forty-five, enters the shop.
THE BARBER. (Rising at once) Good afternoon, sir.
THE CUSTOMER. (Pulling out his watch) That clock right?
THE BARBER. Yes, sir; Western Union time. Corrected every hour.
THE CUSTOMER. My watch has run down. (He sets it.) Now, I've got just five minutes to spare. Can you shave me in that time? ”