H. Rumbold, Master Barber.
And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.
And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe.
Here, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf.
Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you have? So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and couldn't and excuse him no offence and all to that and then he said well he'd just take a cigar.
Gob, he's a prudent member and no mistake.
Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.
And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card with a black border round it.
They're all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.
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