"Pretty dear!—pretty dear!" screamed the magpie.
"I see nothing pretty about him," thought Mr. Trigge. "What a strange little fellow! It would puzzle the Lord Chancellor himself to say what his age might be."
The little man took off his hat, and making a profound bow to the barber, unfolded the Times newspaper, which he carried under his arm, and held it up to Trigge.
"What do you want, my little friend, eh?" said the barber.
"High wages!—high wages!" screamed the magpie.
"Is this yours, sir?" replied the little man, pointing to an advertisement in the newspaper.
"Yes, yes, that's my advertisement, friend," replied Mr. Trigge. "But what of it?"
Before the little man could answer, a slight interruption occurred. While eyeing the new-comer, Watts neglected to draw forth the hot curling-irons, in consequence of which he burnt the sour-looking gentleman's forehead, and singed his hair.
"Take care, sir!" cried the gentleman furiously. "What the devil are you about?"
"Yes! take care, sir, as Judge Learmouth observes to a saucy witness," cried Trigge—"'take care, or I'll commit you!'"