It was not to get shaved, nor yet to get tipsy, that this man visited Jim's premises. The moment they were alone together in the bar-room, he gave the proprietor a knowing wink.
"Many there?"
"I reckon about a dozen," said Jim. "Go in?" Stackridge nodded; and with a grin Jim opened a private door communicating with some back stairs, down which his visitor went groping his way in the dark.
Customers came and went; now and then one disappeared similarly down the back stairs; many remained in the barber's shop to smoke, and discuss in loud tones the exciting question of the day—secession; when, lastly, a boy of fifteen came rushing in. His face was flushed with running, and he was quite out of breath.
"What's wanting, Carl?" said the barber. "A shave?"
This was one of Jim's jokes, at which his customers laughed, to the boy's confusion, for his cheeks were as smooth as a peach.
"I vants to find Mishter Stackridge," said the lad.
"He ain't here," said Jim, looking around the room.
"It is something wery partic'lar. One of his pigs have got choked mit a cob, and he must go home and unchoke him."
This was what Carl had been directed by the farmer's wife to say to the barber, in case he should profess ignorance concerning her husband.