"All right," says I. "Think you could stand another manicure today?"
Barry glances at his polished nails doubtful but allows he could if it's in the line of duty.
"It is," says I. "I'm goin' to sacrifice some of my red hair on the altar of human freedom. Come along."
So, all unsuspectin' where he was goin', I leads him down into Otto's barber shop. And I must say, as a raid in force, it was more or less of a fizzle. The scissors artist who revises my pink-plus locks is a gray-haired old gink who'd never been nearer Berlin than First Avenue. Two of the other barbers looked like Greeks, and even Otto had clipped the ends of his Prussian lip whisker. Nobody in the place made a noise like a spy, and the only satisfaction I got was in lettin' Barry pay the checks.
"I got to go somewhere and think," says I.
"How about a nice quiet dinner at the club?" says Barry.
"That don't listen so bad," says I.
And it wasn't, either. Barry insists on spreadin' himself with the orderin', and don't even complain about havin' to chase out to the bar to take his drinks, on account of my being in uniform.
"Makes me feel as if I were doing my bit, you know," says he.
"Talk about noble sacrifices!" says I. "Why, you'll be qualifyin' for a D. S. O. if you keep on, Barry."