Part 15 (1/2)
”Oh! yes. If such a gentleman as you will condescend to enter my humble kitchen,” was the reply.
I did condescend--heaven only knows how gladly; and soon found myself comfortably seated before an excellent fire, in company with a stout, red-faced, jolly old farmer, and a thin, weazel-faced, undersized individual, dressed in a threadbare suit of pepper and salt, who kept his hat on, and wore it on one side with a knowing swagger, talked big, and gave himself a thousand consequential airs.
This person I discovered to be the barber, and great politician of the village; who talked continually of King George and the royal family; of the king's ministers; the war in Roos.h.i.+a, the burning of Moscow, and the destruction of that monster Bonyparty.
The farmer, who was no scholar, and looked upon him of the strop and razor as a perfect oracle, was treating him to a pot of ale, for the sake of the news; the barber paying twopence a week for the sight of a second-hand newspaper.
Mrs. Archer went softly up to the maker of perukes, and whispered something in his ear. He answered with a knowing nod, and without moving, stared me full in the face.
”Not an inch will I budge, Mrs. Archer. One man's money is as good as another man's money. No offence to the gemman, 'A man's a man for a'
that.' That's what I call real independence, neighbour Bullock.”
And his long, lean fingers descended upon the fat knee of the farmer with a whack that rang through the kitchen.
”Deuce take you! Sheldrake. I wish you'd just show it in some other way,” said the farmer, rubbing his knee. ”Why, man, your fingers are as long and as lean as a crow's claws, and as hard as your own block, and sting like whip-cord. One would think that you had dabbled long enough in oil and pomatum, and such like messes, to make them as white as a lady's hand, and as soft as your own head.”
”They have been made tough by handling such hard numskulls as yours, neighbour Bullock. That chin of yours, with its three days' growth of bristles, would be a fortune to a bricklayer, whilst it spoils my best razors, and never puts a penny into the pocket of the poor operator.”
”_Operator!_” repeated the farmer, with a broad, quizzical grin, ”is that your new-fangled name for a shaver? It's a pity you didn't put it on the board with the farrago of nonsense, by which you hope to attract the attention of all the fool bodies in the town.”
”Don't speak disrespectfully of my sign, sir,” quoth the little barber, waxing wroth. ”My sign is an excellent sign--the admiration of the whole village; and let me tell you that it is not in _spite_ and _envy_ to put it down, let spite and envy try as hard as they can. The genius which suggested that sign is not destined to go unrewarded.”
”Ha! ha! ha,!” roared the chewer of bacon.
”Mrs. Archer,” said the offended shaver, turning to the pretty widow with an air of wounded dignity truly comic, ”did you ever before hear a Bullock laugh like a hog?”
”Dang it! man, such conceit would make a cow caper a horn-pipe, or a Sh.e.l.led Drake crow like a c.o.c.k.”
”I beg you, _Mister_ Bullock, to take no liberties with my name, especially in the presence of the fair s.e.x,” bowing gracefully to Mrs.
Archer, who was leaning upon the back of my chair, half suffocated with suppressed laughter.
”What are you quarrelling about, Sheldrake?” said the good-natured widow. ”Bullock, can't you let his sign alone? It is something new, I hear--something in praise of the ladies.”
”I was always devoted to the ladies,” said the barber, ”having expended the best years of my life in their service.”
”Well, well, if so be that you call that powetry over your door a compliment to the women-folk, I'll be shot!” said the farmer. ”Now, sir,” turning to me, ”you are a stranger, and therefore unprejudiced; you shall be judge. Come, barber, repeat your verses, and hear what the gemman says of them.”
”With all my heart;” and flinging his shoulders back and stretching forth his right arm, the barber repeated, in a loud theatrical tone--
”I, William, Sheldrake, shave for a penny, Ladies and gentlemen--there can't come too many-- With heads and beards--I meant to say Those who've got none may keep away.”
A hearty burst of laughter from us all greatly disconcerted the barber, who looked as ruefully at us as a stuck pig.
”You hairy monster!” quoth Mrs. Archer, ”what do you mean by shaving the ladies? You deserve to be ducked to death in a tub of dirty suds.
Beards, forsooth!” and she patted, with evident complacency, her round, white, dimpled chin; ”who ever saw a woman with a beard? Did you take us all for Lapland witches? I wonder what our pretty young lady up at Elm Grove would say to your absurd verses.”
”That is no secret to me, Mrs. Archer. I do know what she thinks of it. Miss Lee is a young lady of taste, and knows how to appreciate fine poetry, which is more than some folks, not a hundred miles off, does. She rode past my shop yesterday on horseback, and I saw her point to my sign with her riding-whip, and heard her say to the London chap that is allers with her, 'Is not that _capital_?'
”And he says, '_Capital!_ If that does not draw custom to the shop, nothing will.' So now, neighbour Bullock, you may just leave off sneering at my sign.”