"Massage?" he said.
"No thank you."
"Shampoo the scalp?" he whispered.
"No thanks."
"Singe the hair?" he coaxed.
"No thanks."
The barber made one more effort.
"Say," he said in my ear, as a thing concerning himself and me alone, "your hair's pretty well all falling out. You'd better let me just shampoo up the scalp a bit and stop up them follicles or pretty soon you won't—"
"No, thank you," I said, "not to-day."
This was all the barber could stand. He saw that I was just one of those miserable dead-beats who come to a barber shop merely for a shave, and who carry away the scalp and the follicles and all the barber's perquisites as if they belonged to them.
