“You’re wrong, Cap’n Cai—­you’re wrong.  We bide by our habits—­an’, more by token, here comes Mr Philp.  ’Morning, Mr Philp.”  The barber, without turning, nodded towards the newcomer as he entered—­a short man, aged about sixty, with a square-cut grey beard, sanguine complexion, and blue eyes that twinkled with a deceptive appearance of humour.  “Here’s Cap’n Cai Hocken, home from sea.”

“Eh?  I am very glad to see you, Cap’n Hocken,” said Mr Philp politely.  “There’s a post-card waitin’ for you, up at the Office.”

Captain Cai sat bolt upright of a sudden, narrowly missing a wound from the scissors.  “That will be from ‘Bias!  To think I hadn’ sense enough to go straight to the Post Office and inquire!”

“’Tis from your friend, sure enough,” announced Mr Philp.  “He paid off his crew last Toosday, an’ took his discharge an’ the train down to Plymouth.  He’ve bought a wardrobe there—­real wornut—­an’ ‘tis comin’ round by sea.  There’s a plate-chest, too, he thinks you may fancy—­ price thirty-five shillin secondhand:  an’ he hopes to reach Troy the day after next, which by the post-mark is to-morra.”

“Mr Philp,” explained the barber, “calls in at the Office every mornin’ to read all the post-cards.  ’Tis one of his habits.”

“Recent bereavement?” asked Mr Philp, before Captain Cai could well digest this.

“Eh?”

“Recent bereavement?” Mr Philp was examining the tall hat, which he had picked up to make room for his own person on the customers’ bench.

“That’s another of his aptitoods,” the barber interpolated.  “He attends all the funerals in the parish.”

“In the midst o’ life we are in death,” observed Mr Philp.  “That’s a cert, Cap’n Hocken, an’ your hat put me in mind of it.”

“Oh, ‘tis my hat you’re meanin’?  What’s wrong with it?”

“Did I say there was anything wrong?  No, I didn’t—­God forbid!  An’ no doubt,” concluded Mr Philp cheerfully, “the fashions’ll work round to it again.”

“I’ll change it for another.”

“You won’t find that too easy, will you?” The barber paused in his snipping, and turned about for a thoughtful look at the hat.

“I mean I’ll buy another, of a different shape.  First the beard, then the headgear—­as I was tellin’ Toy, a man ashore can reggilate his ways as he chooses, an here’s to prove it.”

“They do say a clean shave is worth two virtuous resolutions,” answered the barber, shaking his head Again.  “And you’re makin’ a brave start, I don’t deny.  But wait till you pick up with a few real habits.”

“What sort o’ habits?”

“The sort that come to man first-along in the shape o’ duties—­like church-goin’.  Look here, Cap’n, I’ll lay a wager with ’ee. . . .  Soon as you begin to walk about this town a bit, you’ll notice a terrible lot o’ things that want improvin’—­”

“I don’t need to walk off the Town Quay for that.”