“First of all I’d have my hair cut, and trim myself about a bit.”
“What! an old blossom like me?”
“Yes; shave that fringe of yours altogether, and wear your hair like mine,” running his hand over his cropped head. “I declare, I could not live with a mop like yours! And you may not know it, Tom, but you are an awfully good-looking fellow.”
“Eh—am I?” with slow complacency. “They do say so of Ottinge folk; they are mostly of fine old blood, come down in the world—and the only thing that’s stuck is the features—especially the nose.”
“I can’t tell you anything about that, but I’m certain of one thing—you must give up whisky.”
“Ay”—reddening—“must I so?”
“Don’t let it get a hold, or it may never leave you.”
“Ay, but sometimes when I’m down, the devil ’e comes, and ’e says, ‘You go and ’ave a drink, Tom, it will do you good’; and ’e keeps on a-whisperin’ ‘Go and ’ave a drink, Tom, go and ’ave a drink, Tom,’ and so I goes at last, and ’as three or four!”
“Tell the devil to shut up, and do you go to the barber.”
“’E’s away this week thatching,” was the amazing reply.