Mr. Headstone is in the midst of his preparations for the
evening’s celebration at The George and
Vulture. He has put on his best clothes and has cleaned his boots over and
over again. He has ornamented his waistcoat with a gold watch and chain, put a
ring upon his little finger, and wears his newest silk neckerchief about his
throat. He is at this precise moment standing in front of a looking glass,
admiring the effect of these decorative touches upon his person whilst applying
a liberal quantity of bear’s grease to his scalp. The pedagogue has taken to
using this compound on the tonsorial advice of Mr. Poll Sweedlepipe, who recently
received delivery of one hundred china pots of the aforementioned ursine fat from the Americas, and
is eager to turn a profit on them.
Mr. Headstone worries that he has been
somewhat too liberal in his application of the grease, but his attempts to
wring out the excess have no effect other than to cause him some discomfort and
to produce in his appearance something of the fera naturae. Resignedly, he buttons up his great coat – for it is
snowing hard outside – and, as a precaution against the wind, pulls his hat firmly
down upon his crown until the fat oozes out from under the brim. The odour he trails behind him as he descends the stairs is
strong enough to startle his landlady’s cat, which spits and hisses as he
passes, and the pedagogue must put his faith in the cold night air to disperse the
musky olfactory properties of the compound as he makes his way through the
streets.
