At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Trigge had just advertised for an assistant, his present young man, Rutherford Watts, being about to leave him, and set up for himself in Canterbury. It was about two o'clock, and Mr. Trigge had just withdrawn into an inner room to take some refection, when, on returning, he found Watts occupied in cutting the hair of a middle-aged, sour-looking gentleman, who was seated before the fire. Mr. Trigge bowed to the sour-looking gentleman, and appeared ready to enter into conversation with him, but no notice being taken of his advances, he went and talked to his magpie. While he was chattering to it, the sagacious bird screamed forth: "Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" "Ah! what's that? Who is it?" cried Trigge. "Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" reiterated the magpie. Upon this, Trigge looked around, and saw a very singular little man enter the shop. He had somewhat the appearance of a groom, being clothed in a long grey coat, drab knees, and small top-boots. He had a large and remarkably projecting mouth, like that of a baboon, and a great shock head of black hair. "Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" screamed the magpie. "I see nothing pretty about him," thought Mr. Trigge. "What a strange little fellow! It would puzzle the Lord Chancellor himself to say what his age might be." The little man took off his hat, and making a profound bow to the barber, unfolded the _Times_ newspaper, which he carried under his arm, and held it up to Trigge. "What do you want, my little friend, eh?" said the barber. "High wages!--high wages!" screamed the magpie. "Is this yours, sir?" replied the little man, pointing to an advertisement in the newspaper. "Yes, yes, that's my advertisement, friend," replied Mr. Trigge. "But what of it?" Before the little man could answer, a slight interruption occurred. While eyeing the new-comer, Watts neglected to draw forth the hot curling-irons, in consequence of which he burnt the sour-looking gentleman's forehead, and singed his hair. "Take care, sir!" cried the gentleman furiously. "What the devil are you about?" "Yes! take care, sir, as Judge Learmouth observes to a saucy witness," cried Trigge--"'take care, or I'll commit you!'" "D--n Judge Learmouth!" cried the gentleman angrily. "If I were a judge, I'd hang such a careless fellow." "Sarve him right!" screamed Mag--"sarve him right!" [Illustration: The Barber of London.] "Beg pardon, sir," cried Watts. "I'll rectify you in a minute." "Well, my little friend," observed Trigge, "and what may be your object in coming to me? as the great conveyancer, Mr. Plodwell, observes to his clients--what may be your object?" "You want an assistant, don't you, sir?" rejoined the little man humbly. "Do you apply on your own account, or on behalf of a friend?" asked Trigge. "On my own," replied the little man. "What are your qualifications?" demanded Trigge--"what are your qualifications?"