Todd continued stropping the razor, when suddenly the Courant dropped from the hands of the clerical-looking gentleman, and he uttered a groan that made Todd start.
"Hopkins—Hopkins—Gabriel Hopkins!"
"Sir."
"Hop—kins! my friend—my councillor—my fellow student—my companion—my Mentor—my—my Hopkins."
The clerical-looking gentleman shut up his face in his hands, and rocked to and fro in an agony of grief.
"Good God, sir," cried Todd, advancing. "What is the meaning of this?"
"In that paper you will find the death of Hopkins inserted, sir. Yes, in the obituary of that paper. Gabriel Hopkins—the true—the gentle—the affectionate—the christian—Hop—kins!"
"How sorry I am, sir," said Todd. "But, pray sit in this chair, sir, a shave will compose your feelings."
"A shave! You barbarian. Do you think I could think of being shaved within two minutes of hearing of the death of the oldest and best friend I ever had in the world. No—no. Oh, Hopkins—Hop—kins!"
The Rev. gentleman in a paroxysm of grief rushed from the house, and Todd himself sunk upon the shaving chair.