An Instance of the Fingerpost Read Online Free PDF

began laughing himself. ‘Twelve marks it cost . . .’
    This sent Crosse into greater paroxysms of laughter, and soon both of them were leaning over, helpless and in virtual hysteria.
    ‘Twelve marks!’ wheezed the apothecary, before collapsing once more.
    I even found myself beginning to giggle with amusement, even though I had not the slightest idea what they were talking about. I didn’t even know whether it was considered ill manners in England to interpose oneself into the merriment others, but the fact was that I didn’t care. The warmth of the shop and the open good humour of these two, as they clung to the counter to avoid slipping on to the floor in their helplessness, made me want to laugh with them, to celebrate the first normal human society I had experienced since my arrival. Instantly I felt restored by it for, as Gomesius says, merriment cures many passions of the mind.
    My slight giggling attracted their attention, however, and Mr Crosse attempted to restore himself to the dignified posture that his trade required. His comrade did likewise and both turned to look at me; a sombre silence reigned for a few seconds, then the younger man pointed at me, and both of them lost control once more.
    ‘Twenty marks!’ cried the young man waving in my direction, then banging his fist on the counter. ‘At least twenty.’
    I counted this as being the nearest thing to an introduction that I was likely to receive and, with some wariness, made a polite bow in their direction. I half-suspected some appalling joke at my expense. The English love making fun of foreigners, whose mere existence they regard as an enormous jest.
    My bow to equals – perfectly executed, with just the right balance between the extended left leg, and the graciously elevated right arm – none the less set them off again, so I stood with the impassivity of a stoic as I waited for the storm to pass. And in due course, the gurglings faded, they wiped their eyes, blew their noses, and did their best to appear like civilised people.
    ‘I must beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Crosse, who was the first to regain both the power of speech and the grace to use it civilly. ‘But my friend here has just decided to become a man of fashion, and has taken to appearing in public with a thatched roof on his head. I was doing my best to assure him that he cuts a very fine figure indeed.’ He began heaving with mirth again, and his friend then tore off his wig and threw it on the ground.
    ‘Fresh air at last,’ he exclaimed thankfully as he ran his fingers through his thick, long hair. ‘Dear Lord, it was hot under there.’
    At last I was beginning to make sense of it; the wig had arrived in Oxford – several years after it had established itself throughout most of the world as an essential part of elegant masculine dress. I was wearing one myself, having adopted it as a sign, so to speak, of my graduation into the adult world.
    I could see, of course, why it caused such amusement, although the understanding was overborne by that sense of superiority felt by a man of parts when he encounters the provincial. When I began wearing my wig myself it took some considerable time to grow used to it; only pressure from my fellows persuaded me to continue. And,of course, looking at it as a Turk or an Indian might were he suddenly transported to our shores, it did seem slightly odd that a man, graced by nature with a full head of hair, should shave much of it off in order to wear somebody else’s. But fashionable attire is not for comfort and, as it was profoundly uncomfortable, we may conclude that the wig was very fashionable.
    ‘I think’, I said, ‘that you might find it more comfortable if you shortened your own hair; then there would not be so much pressure under the mat.’
    ‘Shorten my own hair? Good heavens, is that how it’s done?’
    ‘I’m afraid so. We must sacrifice for beauty, you know.’
    He kicked the wig roughly across the floor. ‘Then