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LLIE NOGGLE was clever at reducing swellings and easing the pain of abrasions, from his long practice at that subsidiary art in a land where violence was the rule. After he had gone over Texas Hartwell's face with his razor, and his lumps and bumps, cuts and bruises with his lotions and sweet-scented powders, there was little trace of damage to be seen.

That was one advantage of having a bony face, he remarked, ingenuously, as he worked on the hurts. A man like Hartwell could stand up to a lot of pounding and skinning, and get out of Noggle's chair just about the same as ever. But every barber couldn't do that for a man, hard face or soft face, he allowed. No, sir, it took an artist to make a job of it that a man could go to church with and not feel ashamed.

Hartwell owned that it took an artist, indeed, and that Mr. Noggle was the premier of his craft. He left the shop with confidence, and walked the street without shame. He had not ventured to place himself in Mr. Noggle's hands until after dark, for his