“But I shall be a-practisin’ my haitches, Sir,” he promised me, as I went out with the canary seed which I had called to purchase—­“practise ’em ’ard, I shall.  It’s what I ain’t a-got at the present moment—­’a fine ear for the haspirate.’  Beeutiful expression that, Sir, if you’ll excuse me sayin’ so.  But I don’t see no reason as a man mightn’t ’ope to acquire it, ’im practising constant and careful—­same as a pusson can learn a bullfinch to pipe ’’Ome, sweet ‘Ome.’  That haitch is a funny letter, but it’s a letter as I shall practise.  Still, haitches or no haitches,” he concluded, with a profound sigh, “I wish as I knowed ’ow I could set about coming it over that ’ere one-legged widder lidy at Putney what ’ave the two great hauk’s eggs.”

Out of the dusty twilight in the far end of the shop Mrs. Punt’s eye gleamed balefully.

* * * * *

BLIGHTY IMPRESSIONS.

THE BARBER.

I went into a tobacco-shop, tendered a pound note and asked for a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.  With much regret and a smiling face, she informed me she had the goods but no change.

What a dilemma!  A shop with cigarettes and matches, but I couldn’t spare a pound note for them.

An inspiration!—­I would go into the hairdressing establishment behind the shop, have a shave—­which I really didn’t need—­obtain change and make my purchase.  Besides, with so many barbers closed owing to the strike, it was an opportunity.

This is what happened.

“Good morning, Sir.  Your turn next but six.”

A long, long interval.

“Shave, Sir?  Lovely weather we’re having.  Razor all right, Sir?”

I said as little as possible; it is the only safe thing.

“Face massage, Sir?”

“No, thanks,” I mumbled.

“Wonderful thing for the face, Sir; make a new man of you.  Invigorates the circulation, improves the complexion—­”

“Oh, all right,” I gasped.

And then for about twenty minutes snatches of conversation floated to me through bundles of wet towels.  My head was having a Turkish bath.  My face was covered with ointments and creams.  Currents of electricity played about my brow.

“Just trim your hair, Sir?”

I swear I said “No,” but before I knew what was happening the scissors were running merrily over my head.

“Singeing, Sir?”

“Er—­no.  I—­”

“Finest thing in the world, Sir.  It’s a treat to see hair like this.  Just a bit ‘endy,’ but singeing will soon put that right.”

Even had I been blind I should have discovered that I was undergoing the process.

“What would you like for the shampoo, Sir?  Eau de Quinine—­Violet—­”

“I don’t think—­”

My feeble protest was cut short.

“I always recommend Violet,” he said, sprinkling my head profusely.

More rubbing, more towels, more electricity and finally a brush and comb.