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قراءة كتاب Make or Break; or, The Rich Man's Daughter
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
laugh was at the expense of the tormentor, and he retreated from the shop in the "guffaw," and Fitz was permitted to finish his shave in peace—in peace, at least, so far as this particular tormentor was concerned, for a more formidable one assailed him before his departure. André went over his face with the nicest care; then lathered it again, and proceeded to give it the finishing touches. He was faithful to the end, and gave the juvenile patron the benefit of the entire length and breadth of his art, omitting nothing that could add dignity or perfection to the operation. It was quite certain that, if there was anything like an imperceptible down on his face at the commencement of the process, there was nothing left of it at the end.
Mr. Wittleworth's hair was oiled, moistened with diluted Cologne water, combed, brushed, parted, and tossed in wavy flakes over his head, and was as fragrant, glossy, and unctuous as the skill of André could make it.
"One feels more like a Christian after a clean shave," said Mr. Wittleworth, as he rose from the chair, and passed his hand approvingly over his polished chin. "Barbers, good barbers, do a missionary work in the world."
"What are you doing here, Fitz?" demanded a stern-looking gentleman, who had just entered the shop, and stepped up behind the juvenile customer.
"I came in to get shaved," replied Mr. Wittleworth, abashed by the harsh tones.
"Shaved!" exclaimed Mr. Checkynshaw, the stern-looking gentleman, well known as the senior partner of the great banking house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. "Shaved!"
"Yes, sir; I came here to be shaved, and I have been shaved," replied the young man, trying to assume an air of bravado, though he was actually trembling in his boots before the lofty and dignified personage who confronted and confounded him.
"Is this the way you waste your time and your money? I sent you to the post-office, and you have been gone over half an hour."
"I had to wait for my turn," pleaded Mr. Wittleworth.
"When I send you to the post-office, you will not loiter away your time in a barber's shop, you conceited puppy. I'll discharge you!"
"Discharge me!" exclaimed Mr. Wittleworth, stung by the epithet of the banker. "I think not, sir."
The young gentleman placed his hat upon his head, canting it over on one side, so as to give him a saucy and jaunty appearance. Mr. Checkynshaw, whose clerk, or rather "boy," he was, had often scolded him, and even abused him, in the private office of the banking-house, but never before in a place so public as a barber's shop in 'Change Street, and in 'change hours. He felt outraged by the assault; for Mr. Wittleworth, as his employer had rather indelicately hinted, had a high opinion of himself. He straightened himself up, and looked impudent—a phase in his conduct which the banker had never before observed, and he stood aghast at this indication of incipient rebellion.
"You think not, you puppy!" exclaimed the banker, stamping his feet with rage.
"I think not! It wouldn't be a prudent step for you to take," answered Mr. Wittleworth, stung again by the insulting appellations heaped upon him. "I know rather too much about your affairs to be cast out so thoughtlessly."
"I will discharge you this very day!" replied the banker, his teeth set firmly together.
"I think you will find that the affairs of Messrs. Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. will not go on so smoothly without me as they do with me," added Mr. Wittleworth, as he canted his hat over a little more on one side, and pulled up his shirt collar.
"Without you!" gasped the banker, confounded by the assumption of his employee.
"Perhaps you will find it so, after you have done your worst."
"Conceited puppy! I took you into my office out of charity! Go to your place. Charity can do no more for you."
"If you can afford to discharge me, I can afford to be discharged," replied Mr. Wittleworth, as he stroked his chin, and walked out of the shop.
"The young vagabond!" muttered Mr. Checkynshaw. "I took him to keep his mother from starving. André," he added, imperiously.
The barber with the effeminate voice and the silky hands turned from the customer he was shaving, and bowed politely to the magnate of the house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co.
"André, my daughter Elinora goes to a juvenile party this evening, and wishes you to dress her hair at four o'clock."
"Yes, sir; with Mr. Cutts's permission, I will attend her at that hour."
Mr. Checkynshaw looked as though Mr. Cutts's permission was not at all necessary when he desired anything; but Mr. Cutts did not venture to interpose any obstacle to the wish of a person so influential as the banker. Mr. Checkynshaw turned to leave, went as far as the door, and then returned.
"André," he continued, "you spoke to me of a boy of yours."
"My adopted son, sir," replied the barber.
"I don't care whether he is your son, or your adopted son. What sort of a boy is he?"
"He is a very good boy, sir," answered André.
"Can he read and write?"
"Very well indeed, sir. The master of his school says he will take the medal at the close of the year."
"I shall discharge that puppy, and I want a good boy in his place. Send him to me at half past two this afternoon."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Checkynshaw. Perhaps I spoke too soon, sir; but I did not want a place for him till next vacation."
"Send him up, and I will talk with him," said the banker, imperatively and patronizingly, as he hurried out of the shop.
He was met at the door by a girl of fifteen, who modestly stepped out of the way to let the magnate pass. She was dressed very plainly, but very neatly, and in her hand she carried a tin pail. The loud talk of the barber's shop politicians and the coarse jests of rude men ceased as she walked behind the long line of chairs to that where André was at work. She was rather tall for her age; her face was pretty, and her form delicately moulded. She was all gentleness and grace, and rude men were awed by her presence.
André smiled as sweetly as a woman when he saw her, and his eye followed her as she went to the stove, and placed the pail by its side.
"Maggie, send Leo to me as soon as you go home," said he, in the softest of his soft tones, as she left the shop.
CHAPTER II.
BOY WANTED.
From the tin kettle, which Maggie had placed by the stove, there arose an odor of fried sausages—a savory mess to a hungry man, possessed of a reasonable amount of confidence in the integrity and conscientiousness of sausage-makers in general. André made himself as useful as possible to his employers, and they could not well spare him in the middle of the day to go home to his dinner, for during 'change hours the shop was full of customers. If there was a lull any time before three o'clock, he ate the contents of the tin pail; if not, he dined at a fashionable hour.
André could not well be spared, because there were certain dignified men, presidents of banks and insurance companies, venerable personages with a hold upon the last generation, who came from their homes in the middle of the day to read the newspapers at the "China," or the "Fireman;" staid old merchants, who had retired from active life, and went to the counting-room only to look after the junior partners—men who always shaved down town, and would not let any barber but André touch their faces. His hand was so soft and silky, his touch so tender and delicate, and his razors were so keen and skilfully handled, that he was a favorite in the shop.
Years before, André had set up a shop for himself; but he had no talent for business, and the experiment was a failure. He was too effeminate to control his journeymen, and his shop was not well ordered. All his regular customers insisted on being shaved by André; and, while he paid the wages of two men, he did all the work himself. The