"There are some Germans; perhaps they can tell us where a barber is to be found."
"Walk down here till you come to the first red-and-white painted pole, that's a barber's shop."
"What! a little pole with a gilt knob at the top?" asked Schmidt.
"Yes, there are five or six of them in this street."
"Well, that is a curious sign for a barber," said the shoemaker; "I've been puzzling my brains all day to find out what those poles could mean."
They soon arrived at one of these shops, whence the cheerful notes of a fiddle issued towards them. Schmidt went in, while the rest employed themselves outside in noticing the passers-by, and in looking into the different shop windows; but they had not waited long, before Schmidt, with his face all over lather up to his eyes, came running out again, clapped his hat on his head, and fled.
The three burst into a roar of laughter, and other people also stopped to see what was the matter.
But Schmidt, who perhaps was a little ashamed, quickly wiped the soap off with his handkerchief, and turned aside into a side street, whither his comrades followed him.
"What, in the name of wonder, has happened to you?" asked the brewer.
"Nothing," said Schmidt; "I was a jackass; but I got such a fright when I saw that tall black fellow with the razor."