"Sho' is late. Front do' de barber shop be locked, but de back do' ain't." The Wildcat threaded the dark streets which led to Willie Webster's barber shop. The shave-and-haircut part of the Webster establishment served but to camouflage the darker industries which had their being in a room contiguous to the one where shaves were a nickel and haircuts fifteen cents, including musk.
At the back door of the barber shop the Wildcat hesitated for a moment in an effort to recall the secret knock which gained admittance in the days before the war. This element of the ritual finally came to him, and on the rough panels of the door sounded three quick raps followed by two at more deliberate intervals.
"I gits it 'fused up wid de time I wuz outeh guard to de Lodge ob Colored Damons. 'At knock wuz fo' an' th'ee. Fish club knock wuz two an' two. 'Membehs dat. Dat's how de animals come off de Ark, time ob de flood."
The door opened an inch, and the slot of light from within was interrupted by a rolling eyeball which surmounted a pair of questioning liver-coloured lips. "Who dat?"
"Wildcat—Vitus Marsden." The door opened quickly, and the Wildcat edged into the company of his former associates.
"Men, howdy!"
"Dogged if it ain't ol' Marsden! Boy, how is yo'? Is yo' back f'm de wah?"
"Heah us is, ain't I?"
Willie Webster, the proprietor of the establishment, came forward. "Don' see no arms an' no laigs missin'. Yo' neveh used yo' haid nohow, 'ceptin' to eat wid. Boy, how is yo'? Hail de Konk'rin' Hero!"
"Tol'able, Willie." The Konk'rin' Hero looked about him. At a table against the wall, under the rays of a smoking coal oil lamp, a crap game was in progress.