'Why, you look smarter by day,' said Poll, 'than you do by candle-light.
I never see such a tight young dasher.'
'Reether so, Polly. How's our fair friend, Sairah?'
'Oh, she's pretty well,' said Poll. 'She's at home.'
'There's the remains of a fine woman about Sairah, Poll,' observed Mr
Bailey, with genteel indifference.
'Oh!' thought Poll, 'he's old. He must be very old!'
'Too much crumb, you know,' said Mr Bailey; 'too fat, Poll. But there's
many worse at her time of life.'
'The very owl's a-opening his eyes!' thought Poll. 'I don't wonder at it
in a bird of his opinions.'
He happened to have been sharpening his razors, which were lying open
in a row, while a huge strop dangled from the wall. Glancing at these
preparations, Mr Bailey stroked his chin, and a thought appeared to
occur to him.
'Poll,' he said, 'I ain't as neat as I could wish about the gills. Being
here, I may as well have a shave, and get trimmed close.'
The barber stood aghast; but Mr Bailey divested himself of his
neck-cloth, and sat down in the easy shaving chair with all the dignity
and confidence in life.
Pages:
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872