“What is the matter?” said I, jumping towards him.
“Matter,” said he, “you d——d idiot, do you really mean to tell me you sent an outfit like that to a man who is studying for the ministry?”
“Why not,” said I; and up to now I can’t see what there was to groan over. There was sure more fun in that poker outfit than in the books he sent to Dug, if I am any judge.
Christmas is all right, though, even if the presents don’t fit the right spot. I never knew of but one family that could hit it right every time. That family consisted of a man and his wife. The man usually bought his wife a box of cigars or a pipe, and she would buy him a pair of earrings, a breastpin or a box of candy. If he did not like the earrings she would wear them, and the cigars never came amiss. Taking it all in all, it is a day that makes a fellow feel generous, whether the money he is spending belongs to him or to some one else.
Christmas Eve I went into the hotel barber shop to get shaved. As I sat down in a chair I noticed that I had drawn a long, cadaverous-looking cuss for a barber who seemed to take full possession of anything that came within his reach. He had caught on to my name, somehow, and as I sat down he said:
“Your hair needs trimming, Mr. Henderson. It is a little ragged around the edges.”
I knew well enough that my hair did not need cutting, and was about to say so when he butted in with:
“It’s Christmas to-morrow, you know, Mr. Henderson,” and while he was saying it he was pulling out the headrest. It was Christmas Eve, and I did not want to make him feel bad, so I let him go ahead. One thing I liked about him, he did not seem to be one of the talking kind; that is to say, he did not say much, but what he did say you felt that he meant. After he was through cutting my hair, he laid my head back, and, with those long swipes of his, laid the lather on all parts of me that showed above my collar. Then he commenced on me with his razor. He was long at this. He would lay his razor on above my cheek-bone, and with one swipe would rake down over my cheek and land under the tip of my chin. I fairly held my breath. After he had given me a couple of swipes of that kind he stopped to wipe his razor.
“Look here,” said I; “what did you work at before you struck the barber trade?”
“Stock Yards,” said he, taking a swipe down the other side of my face with that infernal razor; “used to be a ripper,” he added. And before my mind’s eye came a long row of hogs strung up by the hind legs and my friend of the razor going down the line giving each one a slash down the middle. Again I held my breath, and, after a few more of those swiping cuts, I was washed off and jerked into an upright position.