'He is a good customer,' says Turk to me, 'and it will be best for more reasons than one not to offend him. I can't say that I like him--although I try to, Chris, my boy, let me tell you--but I know that he is the soul of honour.'
'How do you know it?' I ask.
Turk scratches his head. 'Well, he says it, Chris, my boy, and everybody says it who knows him. He comes from a highly-respectable family.'
I can say nothing in opposition, knowing nothing of his family.
'And it is something to be proud of, Chris?' says Turk.
'What is, Turk?'
'To be so respectably connected.'
'I suppose so,' I answer indifferently.
Old Mac is a constant visitor at Turk's shop; indeed, it appears to me that he spends most of his time there, for whenever I go westward and open Turk's door, his is the first familiar face I see. He keeps guard, as it were.
'Turk is inside,' he says; or 'Turk is upstairs, crimping a lady's hair.' For Turk has lady as well as gentleman customer's, and has become very skilful in the business. His flow of conversation and anecdote is of great assistance to him; he has always something to say, and, not having been born a barber and hairdresser, he seldom commences about the weather--which is a relief.