The Tiger Lily

“Hallo, Sawbones!”
The speaker raised his head from the white pillow of the massive, old-fashioned four-post bed, and set the ornamental bobs and tags of the heavy bullion fringe upon the great cornice quivering. He was a sharp-faced, cleanly shaven man, freshly scraped, and the barber who had been operating was in the act of replacing his razor and strop as these words were spoken to the calm, thoughtful-looking person who entered the substantially furnished room.
“Good morning, Mr Masters. Had a quiet night?”
“Bah! You know I haven’t. How is a man to have a good night when ten thousand imps are boring into him with red-hot iron, and jigging his nerves till he is half mad! Here, you: be off!”
“Without brushing your hair, sir?”
“Brush a birch broom! My head never wants brushing. You know that.”
He gave himself a jerk, and the short, crisp, wavy grey locks glistened in the bright morning sun, which streamed in through the window.
“Look here; you can cut it to-morrow when you come—if I’m not dead. If I am, you may have a bit to keep in remembrance.”
“Oh, not so bad as that, sir, I hope. Dr Thorpe is too—”
“That’ll do,” said the man in the bed sharply. “I kept to you because you didn’t chatter like the ordinary barber brood. I may get better, so don’t spoil your character. Be off!”
The barber smiled, bowed, and left the room to doctor and patient.