"I would not," retorted Mr. Holiday crisply. "My wife cuts my hair for me, just the way I tell her to."
The man turned a careworn, unhappy face.
"My wife used to cut mine," he said. "But then I—I got into the habit of having it done for me…. Ever been to Ohio Penitentiary, mister? … That's the finest tonsorial parlor in America—anything from a shave to the electric treatment."
"Ohio Penitentiary is a jail for felons," said Mr. Holiday severely.
"Quite so," said the man, "as I was telling you."
His voice had a plaintive, subdued note of defiance in it. It was that of a person who is tired of lying and beating about the bush.
"When did you get out?" asked Mr. Holiday simply.
"Eight days ago," said the man, "and when I get good and sick of looking for jobs and getting turned down—I guess I'll go back."
"First they make you work," said Mr. Holiday with a pleased chuckle, "and then they won't let you work. That's the law. But you take my advice—you fool 'em!"
"I never fooled anybody," said the man, and he ripped a holy name from the depths of his downheartedness.