The beauty of it was, too, the fatter he got upon my food, the lazier he grew over my work, for really it seemed as difficult for him to crawl along, as if he was one of those heavy inactive things your city folks _will_ call “lively turtle;” and all the way up stairs one might hear him breathing as hard as a pavior, and puffing and blowing away like a railway engine. When he came up, too, there he’d be, with his face looking as greasy and dirty as the newspaper we have half price from the coffee-shop, and his forehead as dewy as our kitchen window on a washing day. But what annoyed me more than all was, that, do what I would, I could not for the life of me get the nasty bristly pig to shave his filthy red beard of a morning; and there I should have him bringing the dinner things up with his four chins looking as rough and rusty as so many rasped French rolls. The fellow, too, was so conceited, that really there was no bearing with him; for instance, if I left him in the parlour dusting the chairs, or rubbing the tables, directly my back was turned, off he’d be to the pier glass, and get attitudinizing before it, and arranging the nasty, greasy, figure 6 curl he had in the middle of his forehead, with his nasty oily fingers, or else--drat his impudence!--nothing would suit him, but he must go to the sideboard, and take out the clothes-brush, or, if that wasn’t handy, the semicircular one we had to sweep the crumbs off the table-cloth with, and begin scrubbing away at his hair with it. And the nuisance of it was, bother take it! I _would_ make the fellow wear powder, so that, if ever I went to brush my beautiful black German velvet dress, there I should have it with long white streaks upon it like the inside of a backgammon board, and all smelling of hair-powder and pomatum as strong as that Duffy’s livery-hat.