Perhaps, when Mr. Quickfall had thus described his premises, he had contemplated vast alterations which he had never carried out; for the small apartment into which Mr. Bouncer was shown had all the cheerlessness of the desert, without its limitless prospect. In fact, the view through the solitary window was restricted to a water-butt of bloated dimensions, and a dead wall of uncompromising brickiness. On the floor was an attenuated piece of oilcloth, the pattern of which had long since been starved out; and on a table by the window were arranged the unguents, soaps, brushes, combs, hair-oil, cigars, and other commodities in which Mr. Quickfall dealt He was a tall, largely made man, who, in years, had passed what is usually called "the prime of life"—a most uncertain and indefinite expression, especially when we call to mind such examples of youthful, hard-working septuagenarians as Lord Palmerston and many of our Judges and Lord Chancellors. Mr. Quickfall had a slow, ponderous manner, in keeping with his dimensions, and suggesting the notion of an amiable elephant who had taken to hair-cutting from mere philanthropy. He was in his shirt-sleeves and carpet slippers, and was girt about with a white apron, furnished with pockets for the implements of his trade.
Mr. Bouncer took his seat on the operating chair, where Mr. Quickfall, by the aid of a cotton wrapper, folded him into the semblance of a parcel, as though he were to be forthwith ticketed and sent away by the next train from the Barham Station. Such a journey had, in fact, to be taken by Mr. Bouncer, who began to fear that his progress to "the little village "would be somewhat delayed, if this Barham barber did not hurry himself a little more than, at the present, he seemed inclined to
