his work of stropping a razor, which was
effected by means of a long strop, the top of
which was nailed half-way up the wall, while
he held the other end in his hand, drawing
out the leather to the proper angle of tension.

"Yes," replied Mr. Yawl, putting up his
hand to his chin, with a weak attempt at
understanding the irony of Mr. Slivers in a
literal sense, " Yes, Sir; I think I do."

"Oh, you do, do you? Well, then, now
I'm ready for you. Sit down. Lean back.
Easy, you know, as usual. Don't sit so stiff.
There—quite with your back against the back
of the shaving-chair. My lather's not hot—
don't flinch. So—ah—ahem! Cold morning,
this morning—early, I mean." Here he
adjusted the white cloth beneath his patient's
chin.

"Yes," said Mr. Yawl; "it was rather
cold;—not so very, neither."

"Butchers' markets usually is cold,"
remarked Mr. Slivers, tucking the cloth in
round the throat, " 'specially in the early
part of the morning. So much stone, and
wet. Ahem! Hope you got a good lot of
sheep's brains?"

"Sheep's nonsense! What do you mean,
Mr. Slivers?"

"What you had in your bundle, this morning.
I felt 'em, you know—poked my finger
into the soft plumpness of the hangkercher.
I know'd it was sheep's brains, directly I
saw you."

"No such thing, Sir!" said Mr. Yawl,
trying to look bold and offended, and avoiding
the advancing hand of his operator.

"Well, bullocks', then."

"No, Mr. Slivers, nor bullocks', neither.
Why should I—" There he stopped.

"Then," said Mr. Slivers, with a confident
tone, beginning to apply the lather, "it was
calves'—yes, calves' brains for breakfast, and
a good thing too, ain't they?"

"For those who like them," replied Mr.
Yawl, guardedly.

"We must learn to like them, anyhow,"
said the persevering barber, " both at breakfast
and tea, considering we can't get our
milk good without some such thing. Come, I
know all about it."

"I don't care what you know," said poor
Mr. Yawl, his face becoming as white and
quivering as curds and whey; "it's nothing
to me what other dairymen do."

"'Course not; you can't help what they do.
I say so. Hold up your chin! They send to
the Cow with the Iron Tail, and they mix a
pint at least—some on 'em a pint and a-half,
or more—to every quart of milk. Hold up
your chin a leetle higher. Then the milk,
you know, looks too thin, so they beats
up the brains in a mortar—calves' brains is
best, because it comes nearer to the nature of
a cow—and when they are well worked up,
and mixed with the milk, they give it the
thickness it has lost, and restore its colour.
Chin up—I can't cleverly get at you, if you
point your nose down at your toe, in that
way. Then, there's some as uses chalk, or
whiting, to whiten the water they put;
and flour, starch, and size, to keep up the
substance, and perwent the 'milk' from looking
thin; and lastly, they go to a secret
doctor's, and buy a set of dusky orange-red
balls, rnade of mysterious stuff, which, being
well worked round, melts gradually, and gives
the nice yellowish tint what's wanted. And
I have heard—I accuse nobody in particular—
that when a nice froth is wanted to the top,
they sometimes throw in a number of snails,
stir them round and round, and then strain
them off, so that nobody's none the wiser."

"As I hope to be saved," exclaimed Mr.
Yawl, " I never did any such thing; and I 'd
send away any servant or boy of mine, as
hinted at such—that I would." And Mr.
Yawl rose to his full height, with the white
cloth still close round his throat, and hanging
down.

"Dont't get up! " cried Mr. Slivers, " seiz-
ing his victim by the shoulders, and bumping
him down upon the hard, wooden-seated
chair, " Why do you get up ?"

"Why, have 'nt you done both sides?"
inquired Mr. Yawl.

"Yes; to be sure I have;" said Mr. Slivers,
wiping his patient's face with a wet towel;
"but your hair is in a shocking state—quite
neglected—all comes of your leaving me for
that infamous quack, Podgy Green, because
he took more milk of you. Now, sit still.
You must be cut and curled."

Mr. William Yawl groaned inwardly, and
repeated to himself a melo-dramatic line
he had recently heard at a saloon theatre—
"I am—I feel it—in this villain's power!"

"You, see," pursued Mr. Tim Slivers, ap-
plying his large comb with provoking compo-
sure, and opening the jaws of his scissors to
their full width, as he stood astride in front
of his man, " You see, it can't be pure milk
as we all drink, and I 'll show you how it
can't be. Say there's two millions and more
of us here in London; and suppose each
person, on the average, takes half-a-pint of
milk a-day—"

"But they don't do it," interposed Mr.
Yawl, " that's much too high a hestimate.
Half-a-pint!—I wish they did."

"And so they do," proceeded the un-
conquerable Slivers; " there's tea and coffee
in the morning—good; and there's tea and
coffee in the evening—good. But besides
this—mind, I said one with another—there's
bread-and-milk for breakfast, and paps, and
bottles of milk for hinfants, and there's pies
and puddings, and cakes, blue-monge and
custards, and soups and sarces, and diet for
the sick, and curds and way, and milk punch,
and rum-and-milk—nice thing, you know—
and sometimes a bath of milk, for those as
can't swallow:—nourishment gets through the
pores, my boy! "—and smack closed the jaws
of the scissors with the last word, and down