On it an Indian was walking, steadfastly, onward, onward, onward!
Remorseless as a gas bill the Indian came onward to the barber shop.
Sniffles, the barber, jumped quickly into his armor-plated working clothes, and Mike, with a sad smile of farewell, crawled into the cyclone cellar and closed the steel doors.
The Indian entered the barber shop.
"You are next!" said Sniffles, politely.
"I know it," said the Indian; "but I was put next only an hour ago—hence the delay. The bay rum, please!"
"You want it for the hair?" inquired the barber.
"No, I want it for a souse," said the Indian.
"Get in the chair, please!" said the barber.
"Man-Behind-The-Snip-Snap speaks foolish," said the Indian. "I am not for a hair cut; I am for that bay rum idea. Heap thirst! Don't keep me waiting!"