"And you're from New York, eh?" he went on, resuming his labors. "What's the name?"
I enlightened him, and received the inevitable question.
"Whaddyer think of Chicago?"
It had happened that every visit I had made to Chicago for several years had shown that city almost completely hidden beneath a pall of sooty cloud and lake fog; so I answered him accordingly.
"Why, I like Chicago very much," said I, "very much indeed; but there is room for improvement here, of course. For instance, Chicago is dark, and gloomy, and cold. Now over in New York," I added, "we have a little round, yellow ball that is hauled up into the sky out of the wilds of Long Island every morning, and it is so arranged that it moves in a perfect semicircle through the sky at the rate of about sixty seconds a minute. It is a wonderful invention. It sheds light on everything, on everybody, and sort of warms things up for us, and unlike most things in New York it doesn't cost anybody a cent. Best of all, when the day is over, and we want things darkened up a bit so that we can go to sleep, the little ball sinks out of sight over on the western side of the city."
"Aw go wan!" he put in. "I know what you mean—you mean the sun."
"Yes," said I; "that's just what we call it. You've evidently heard of it before—but why don't you have something of the kind out here?"
His reply was a mixture of a snort and a sniff.
I then went on my journey into Iowa, and at the end of about ten days was back in Chicago once more, and in need of further renovation I again sought the assistance of my tonsorial friend. After a cordial greeting he said:
"Say—I told my wife how I'd fixed you up the other day, and she'd heard of you before. You wrote a book called 'Tea and Coffee' once, didn't cha?"