We went early to the shop an’ planted ourselves, lookin’ solemn an’ not sayin’ anything to put Eugene on his guard. When at last ol’ man Dort hove in sight with his brows scowled down an’ his jaws set under his shrubbery, we all bit our lips; an’ Eugene stopped tellin’ us about the hair-roots o’ the Prince of Wales, an’ stood lookin’ at ol’ man Dort with his mouth gapped wide open.
The ol’ man came in, shut the door careful behind him, glared at Eugene, as though darin’ him to do his worst, an’ said: “I want my hair shamped, an’ my whiskers shaved off.”
“If you expected to get it all done in one day, you should ought to have come earlier,” sez Eugene soberly, but tossin’ us a side wink.
“Well, you do as much as you can to-day, an’ we’ll finish up to-morrow,” sez ol’ man Dort, not seein’ the joke.
Ol’ man Dort peeled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, an’ climbed into the chair as if he thought it was liable to buck him off. Then he settled back with a grunt, an’ Eugene tucked the bib in around his neck, combed his fingers through ol’ man Dort’s hair a minute, an’ sez; “Your hair’s startin’ to come out. You should ought to use a tonic.”
“Tonic, hell!” snaps the ol’ man. “My hair sheds out twice a year, same as the rest o’ the animals.”
“Then you should ought to comb it,” sez Eugene. “I’ve got some hair here in my hand which was shed out two years ago. Leavin’ dead hair an’ such rubbish as that layin’ around on your scalp is what kills the hair globules.”
“It don’t either; it acts like fertilizer, the same as dead grass does,” sez ol’ man Dort. He had made up his mind to take the contrary side of everything ’at Eugene said, an’ it was more fun than a dog fight.
Eugene started in by mowin’ away the whiskers, an’ it was a long an’ painful job; ’cause it was almost impossible to tell where they left off an’ ol’ man Dort began, an’ then they was so cluttered up with grit an’ dead hair and kindry deb-ris that his scissors would choke up an’ pull, an’ then ol’ man Dort would bob up his head an’ yell out a bunch o’ profanity, and Eugene would stand back an’ say that he was a barber, not a clearer of new ground, an’ that the job ought to be done with a scythe and hoe, not with scissors an’ razor. Eugene wasn’t covetous of ol’ man Dort’s trade an’ didn’t care whether he insulted him or not.
The most fun came, though, after Eugene had got down to where he could tell the outline of ol’ man Dort’s face. First he soaked it with lather, combin’ it in with a comb, an’ puttin’ hot towels on it to draw out the alkalie grit an’ give his razors some show.