It was a very bald man and he had a long face hung with glasses; he had no coat and rode in his shirt and knickerbockers, with hot thick stockings and white shoes. The barber watched him after he had passed and noted how his knees turned angularly outwards at each upward movement, and how his saddle bag hung at the bottom of his back like some ironical label.
“Fool!” exclaimed Mr. Piffingcap, rising angrily, for the man’s chatter had driven his mind clean away from the Widow Buckland’s meaning. But it was only for a short while, and when he got home he called one of his daughters into the saloon.
“My child,” said Piffingcap, “you know the great trouble which is come on me?” and he told Bersa his difficulty and requested her aid, that is to say: would she go down in the early morning in her skin only and recover the pot?
“Indeed no, father!” said his daughter Bersa, “it is a very evil thing and I will not do your request.”
“You will not?” says he.
“No!” says she, but it was not in the fear of her getting her death that she refused him.
So he called to another of his daughters.
“My child,” said he, “you know the great trouble that is come on me,” and he told Mavie his desire and asked for her aid.
“Why, my father,” says she, “this is a thing which a black hag has put on us all and I will get my death. I love you as I love my life, father, but I won’t do this!”
“You will not?” says he.