upon the tailor's locks.

"I say," resumes our Peter, "a man with that head of hair would do
anything--pray, sir, do you wish to be taken for a German sausage, or a
German student?--they're all the same, sir--speak at once."

The faltering fraction denies the student, and repudiates the sausage.

_Sir Peter_, still looking at the hair, from which external sign he
evidently derived all his information--"You were drunk, sir."

"I was," faltered the Samsonian schneider.

"I know it, sir--you are fined five shillings, sir--but if you choose to
submit to the deprivation of that iniquitous hair, which has brought you
here, and which, I repeat, will make you do anything, I will remit the
fine."

A sigh, fine-drawn as the accidental rent in an unfinished skirt, escaped
the hirsute stitcher: a melancholy reflection upon the infinite deal of
nothing in his various pockets, and the slow revolving of the Brixton
wheel in stern perspective, wrung from the quodded wretch a slow assent:
Sir Peter sent a City officer with his warrant to secure the nearest
barber: a few sharp clickings of the envious shears--and all was over!
Crime fell from the shoulders of the quondam culprit, and the tonsorial
innocent stood forth confessed!

Sir Peter was entranced. That was his doing! He gazed with pride upon the
new absolved from sin. He asked, "Are you not more comfortable?"