Alphonse was a Hokusai of barbers, but he was also a true son
of France; and there were Alsace and Lorraine and the arrogance of 1870
still to be accounted for. So Alphonse went, and in his place reigned
Ferdinand.
Ferdinand, what there was of him, was a good fellow. He was an old
fire-eater. He had lost a leg in Algeria and an eye somewhere else, and
he could not comprehend why such trivial matters should disqualify a man
for killing pigs. He was, as I have said, a good fellow, but his methods
of using a razor were mediaeval. However we were not long for one
another, and, as the R.N.V.R. tolerate such things, I grew a beard, an
equable, regulation torpedo beard.
Omitting several super-emotional lifetimes, let us speak of a certain
day not very remote when I stood, bereft of all sea power, at the top of
St. James's Street, considering what was the very best worst thing to
do to a body which was bored with the reaction that follows four years'
strife upon the narrow seas. I fingered my beard meditatively. Yes,
after all there was Alphonse. I had almost forgotten him. I turned my
steps towards his exclusive retreat. I entered in, and behold! there as
of yore, clothed in his samite raiment, stood the incomparable Alphonse.
He had returned.
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