“No!” says she, but it was not for fear of her death she refused him.
And he went to his third daughter Grue and tried her with the same thing. “My child, you know the trouble that’s come on me?”
“Oh, will you let me alone!” she says, “I’ve a greater trouble on me than your mouldy pot.” And it is true what she said of her trouble, for she was a girl of a loose habit. So the barber said no more to them and went to his bed.
Two days later, it being Saturday, he opened in the morning his saloon and sat down there. And while he read his newspaper in the empty place footsteps scampered into his doorway, and the door itself was pushed open just an inch or two.
“Come in,” he said, rising.
The door opened fully.
“Zennybody here?” whispered Polly walking in very mysteriously, out of breath, and dressed in a long mackintosh.
“What is the matter, my little one?” he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders, for he had a fondness for her. “Ach, your hair’s all wet, what’s the matter?”
The little girl put her hand under the macintosh and drew out the leaden pot, handing it to the barber and smiling at him with inarticulate but intense happiness. She said not a word as he stared his surprise and joy.
“Why Polly, my dear, how did you get it?”