"What is it, Mr.Bar ?" says I; and as quick as thought, I had the towel under his chin, Mr.Bar in the chair, and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather.

Mr.Bar made some resistance.--"Don't think of it, Mr.Cox," says he; "don't trouble yourself, sir." But I lathered away and never minded.

"And what's this melancholy event, sir," says I, "that has spread desolation in your family's bosoms?
I can feel for your loss, sir--I can feel for your loss." I said so out of politeness, because I served the family, not because Tuggeridge was my uncle--no, as such I disown him.
Mr.Bar was just about to speak.

"Yes, sir," says he, "my master's gaw--" when at the "gaw" in walks Mr.Hock, the own man!--the finest gentleman I ever saw.
"What, YOU here, Mr.Bar!" says he.
"Yes, I am, sir; and haven't I a right, sir ?" "A mighty wet day, sir," says I to Mr.Hock--stepping up and making my bow.

"A sad circumstance too, sir! And is it a turn of the tongs that you want to-day, sir?
Ho, there, Mr.Crump!" "Turn, Mr.Crump, if you please, sir," said Mr.Hock, making a bow: "but from you, sir, never--no, never, split me!--and I wonder how some fellows can have the INSOLENCE to allow their MASTERS to shave them!" With this, Mr.Hock flung himself down to be curled: Mr.Bar suddenly opened his mouth in order to reply; but seeing there was a tiff between the gentlemen, and wanting to prevent a quarrel, I rammed the Advertiser into Mr.Hock's hands, and just popped my shaving-brush into Mr.Bar's mouth--a capital way to stop angry answers.
Mr.Bar had hardly been in the chair one second, when whir comes a hackney-coach to the door, from which springs a gentleman in a black coat with a bag.
"What, you here!" says the gentleman.