In the thick of these scents and sounds, and within a cool doorway,
before which the shadow of a barber's pole rested on the cobbles,
reclined Captain John Barker--a little wry-necked gentleman, with a
prodigious hump between his shoulders, and legs that dangled two
inches off the floor. His wig was being curled by an apprentice at
the back of the shop, and his natural scalp shone as bare as a
billiard-ball; but two patches of brindled grey hair stuck out from
his brow above a pair of fierce greenish eyes set about with a
complexity of wrinkles. Just now, a coating of lather covered his
shrewish underjaw.
The dress of this unlovely old gentleman well became his rank as
captain of his Majesty's frigate the _Wasp_, but went very ill with
his figure--being, indeed, a square-cut coat of scarlet, laced with
gold, a long-flapped blue waistcoat, black breeches and stockings.
Enormous buckles adorned the thick-soled shoes which he drummed
impatiently against the legs of his chair.
The barber--a round, bustling fellow--stropped his razor and prattled
gossip. On a settle to the right a couple of townsmen smoked,
listened, and waited their turn with an educated patience.
"Changes, indeed, since you left us, Captain John," the barber began,
his razor hovering for the first scrape.
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