But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. It wakes Mr. George of the shooting gallery and his familiar. They arise, roll up and stow away their mattresses. Mr. George, having shaved himself before a looking-glass of minute proportions, then marches out, bare-headed and bare-chested, to the pump in the little yard and anon comes back shining with yellow soap, friction, drifting rain, and exceedingly cold water. As he rubs himself upon a large jack-towel, blowing like a military sort of diver just come up, his hair curling tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples the more he rubs it so that it looks as if it never could be loosened by any less coercive instrument than an iron rake or a curry-comb--as he rubs, and puffs, and polishes, and blows, turning his head from side to side the more conveniently to excoriate his throat, and standing with his body well bent forward to keep the wet from his martial legs, Phil, on his knees lighting a fire, looks round as if it were enough washing for him to see all that done, and sufficient renovation for one day to take in the superfluous health his master throws off.
When Mr. George is dry, he goes to work to brush his head with two hard brushes at once, to that unmerciful degree that Phil, shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it, winks with sympathy. This chafing over, the ornamental part of Mr. George's toilet is soon performed. He fills his pipe, lights it, and marches up and down smoking, as his custom is, while Phil, raising a powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee, prepares breakfast. He smokes gravely and marches in slow time. Perhaps this morning's pipe is devoted to the memory of Gridley in his grave.

But the wintry morning wakes him not. It wakes Mr. George of the shooting gallery and his familiar. They arise, and stow away their mattresses. Mr. George, having shaved himself before a minute looking-glass, marches out, bare-chested, to the pump in the little yard and comes back shining with yellow soap and exceedingly cold water. As he towels himself, he blows like a military diver just come up, his hair curling tighter and tighter the more he rubs it.
When Mr. George is dry, he goes to work on his head with two hard brushes, so unmercifully that Phil, shouldering his way round the gallery while sweeping it, winks with sympathy. Then Mr. George lights his pipe and marches up and down smoking, while Phil, raising a powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee, prepares breakfast.
