“And so say I, sir,” said Wimble. “Nobody thinks a bit the better of you if you do.”
“That’s true,” said the gardener, letting his head sink back with a sigh, as Wimble stood before him working up the lather in his pot to a splendid consistency.
“Anxious time for you people at the Fort, sir,” said Wimble, beginning to lather gently, and taking care to leave his customer’s lips quite free.
“Yes,” said the gardener shortly.
“Poor man! Ah, I wonder how many times I have shaved him, sir.”
The gardener stared straight before him in silence, frowning heavily.
“In the midst of life we are in death, Mr Brime, sir, parson says o’ Sundays,” continued Wimble, pausing to tuck the cloth a little more in round his customer’s neck.
No acquiescent reply.
“Just like things in your profession, Mr Brime, or, as I might say, in mine. Flowers and grass comes up, and the frost takes one, and the scythe the other; or beards comes up and the hair grows, and it’s the razor for one, and the shears for the other, eh?”
“Humph!”