“Yes, ’tis,” said Chris shortly.
“Ay, ’tis as you say, sir, that it is; but when you feel in the right mind you’ve only got to say so, and I’m your man, punt and all.”
“Cut or shave, sir?” said the little barber, with a look at his regular customer which seemed to say, “Go.” And he went.
“Cut,” said Chris laconically; and he took his seat in the operating chair.
The barber looked disappointed as he drew his professional print cloth round his customer, giving it a shake, and then securing it about his neck like a Thug with a new victim.
“Much or little off, sir?” continued Wimble, with a preliminary snip in the air.
“Much; but don’t make it a confounded crop,” said Chris sourly; for he had a natural dislike to the barber, and was vexed with himself for not having had his hair cut in London.
“Much, but not too much,” said Wimble thoughtfully; and then, with the customary chatter of his profession, he started a topic.
“Been up to the quarry, sir, lately?”
“No.”