Proprietor. Yes, Sir, you'll find that razor-strop quite... Six holes wanted in that strap? (To Assistant) Right—leave it here and—Sorry, Madam, I can't attend to you just now.... Don't happen to have a ten-shilling note, do you, Sir? No? Well, I may be able to manage it for you.... If you'll speak to my assistant, Madam; he's attending to the muzzling.
The Owner of a subdued nondescript (calling Assistant). Will you ask this lady to kindly keep her dog from trying to kill mine, please?
The Other Lady (whose dog, a powerful and truculent Airedale, seems to have conceived a sudden and violent dislike for the nondescript). Yours must have done something to irritate him—he's generally such a good-tempered dog.
Assistant (to the Airedale, which is barking furiously and straining at his lead). 'Ere, sherrup, will you? Allow me, Mum. I'll put 'im where he can 'ave 'is good temper out to 'imself. (He hustles the Airedale to a small office, where he shuts him in—to his and his owner's intense disapproval. A fox-terrier in another customer's arms becomes hysterical with sympathy and utters ear-rending barks.) Oh, kindly get that dawg to sherrup, Mum, or we'll 'ave the lot of 'em orf; or could you look in some day when he's more collected?
Another Lady. I say, I want a muzzle for my dog.
Assistant (sardonically). You surprise me, Mum! We're very near sold out, but if you'll let me 'ave a look at your dawg, p'r'aps—
The Lady. Oh, I haven't brought him. Left him at Barnes.
Assistant. 'Ave yer, Mum? Well, yer see, I can't run down to Barnes—not just now I can't.
The Lady. No, but I thought—he's rather a large dog, a Pekinese spaniel.
Assistant. Then I couldn't fit 'im if 'e was 'ere, cos 'e'd want a short muzzle and we've run out o' them.