'It's my son, my oldest one. He's
a credit to his father, an't he, Polly?' With this delicate little
piece of banter, he halted on the pavement, and went round and round
in circles, for the better exhibition of his figure; rather to the
inconvenience of the passengers generally, who were not in an equal
state of spirits with himself.
'I wouldn't have believed it,' said Poll. 'What! You've left your old
place, then? Have you?'
'Have I!' returned his young friend, who had by this time stuck his
hands into the pockets of his white cord breeches, and was swaggering
along at the barber's side. 'D'ye know a pair of top-boots when you see
'em, Polly?--look here!'
'Beau-ti-ful' cried Mr Sweedlepipe.
'D'ye know a slap-up sort of button, when you see it?' said the youth.
'Don't look at mine, if you ain't a judge, because these lions' heads
was made for men of taste; not snobs.'
'Beau-ti-ful!' cried the barber again. 'A grass-green frock-coat, too,
bound with gold; and a cockade in your hat!'
'I should hope so,' replied the youth. 'Blow the cockade, though; for,
except that it don't turn round, it's like the wentilator that used to
be in the kitchen winder at Todgers's.
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