The B.C. (piteously, from his basin). Th—that's c-cold enough, thanks!
The Gr. C. (aggressively from his). Here, colder than that—as cold as you can make it—I don't care!
The B.C. (drying his face meekly on a towel). A—a hand-brush, please, not the machine!
The S.A. No, Sir, machine-brush would about sweep all the 'air off your 'ed, Sir!
The Gr. C. Machinery for me—and your hardest brush, do you hear?
| The Loq. Ass. The S.A. | { | (together, to their respective patients. | { | Shall I put anything on your 'ed,
Sir? Like anything on your 'air, Sir? |
The B.C. (hopelessly). Oh, I don't know that it's much good!
The S.A. Well, you may as well keep what little you 'ave got, Sir. Like to try our 'Irsutine Lotion, capital thing, Sir. Known it answer in the most desprit cases. Keep it in 'alf-crown or three-and-sixpenny sizes. Can I 'ave the pleasure of puttin' you up a three-and-sixpenny one, Sir? (The Bald Customer musters up moral courage to decline, at which the Assistant appears disgusted with him.) No, Sir? Much obliged, Sir. Let me see—(with a touch of sarcasm)—you part your 'air a one side, I think, Sir? Brush your 'at, Sir? Thankee, Sir. Pay at the counter, if you please. Shop—there!
The Loq. Ass. Think your 'air's as you like it now, Sir? Like to look at yourself in a 'and-glass, Sir? Thank you, Sir.