There was no resisting his manner. The evidence
of sight and touch became as nothing. His chin was as smooth as a
new-laid egg or a scraped Dutch cheese; but Poll Sweedlepipe wouldn't
have ventured to deny, on affidavit, that he had the beard of a Jewish
rabbi.
'Go WITH the grain, Poll, all round, please,' said Mr Bailey, screwing
up his face for the reception of the lather. 'You may do wot you like
with the bits of whisker. I don't care for 'em.'
The meek little barber stood gazing at him with the brush and soap-dish
in his hand, stirring them round and round in a ludicrous uncertainty,
as if he were disabled by some fascination from beginning. At last he
made a dash at Mr Bailey's cheek. Then he stopped again, as if the
ghost of a beard had suddenly receded from his touch; but receiving mild
encouragement from Mr Bailey, in the form of an adjuration to 'Go in and
win,' he lathered him bountifully. Mr Bailey smiled through the suds in
his satisfaction. 'Gently over the stones, Poll. Go a tip-toe over the
pimples!'
Poll Sweedlepipe obeyed, and scraped the lather off again with
particular care.
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