The barber gave him a look of derisive contempt and then said in a tone of the utmost sarcasm:
“Oh, yes, I sold it out. I sold exactly five bottles, and the purchasers, after using the mixture faithfully for a month, came back and demanded their money. Not one of them that used it ever had a new hair to start on his head.”
“How do you account for its having made the hair grow on Mr. Plunket’s head?” asked the Post Man.
“How do I account for it?” repeated the barber in so dangerous a tone that the Post Man shuddered. “How do I account for it? I’ll tell you how I account for it. I went out one day to where Mr. Plunket lived on the edge of town and asked for him.
“ ‘Which Mr. Plunket?’ asked a man who came out to the gate?
“ ‘Come off,’ I said, ‘the Plunket that lives here.’
“ ‘They’ve both moved,’ said the man.
“ ‘What do you mean by “both?” ’ I said, and then I began to think, and I said to the man:
“ ‘What kind of looking men were the Plunkets?’
“ ‘As much like as two peas,’ said the man. ‘They were twins, and nobody could tell ’em apart from their faces or their talk. The only difference between ’em was that one of ’em was as bald-headed as a hen egg and the other had plenty of hair.’ ”