Hair flew—literally. At last the barber stepped back, perspiring, and looked at the lean face before him.
“I feel,” he said, “more as if I’d made a man than shaved him.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Carrigan, and started on the run for the general merchandise store across the street, the only clothiers within a hundred miles, a place that carried everything from horseshoes to hairpins. The proprietor was locking up the front door.
“What’s your rush, partner?” he asked. “Wait till to-morrow. I got some business to—”
“To-morrow is next year,” said Carrigan. “Start goin’.”
The door opened.
He began shedding orders and old clothes at the same time. The storekeeper, on the run, brought the articles Carrigan demanded.
“More light!” Carrigan said at last.
The proprietor brought a lamp and placed it close to a large mirror, the pride of his place.
Carrigan stalked up to it, and, turning slowly around, viewed his outfit with one long glance.