"'Barber,' sez Tim.
"'Sir,' sez the little man.
"'Frizzle my head,' sez Tim.
"An', widout any ghosther at all, the spry little man pokes a long iron thing into the fire.
"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim. 'What's that?'
"'Thim's the curlin'-tongs,' sez the barber.
"'Oh,' sez the cunnin' Tim, turnin' up his nose, 'thim's the ould time fashion. May be ye niver seen the frizzlin' insthrument they use in forrin parts?'
"'Sorra one have I seed, barrin' the masheen in my hand,' sez the barber.
"''Tworn't to be expected of yees, in this outlandish place,' sez Tim.
"'Hould still, if ye pl'ase,' sez the barber, takin' a grip of his hair.