clothes, and Mike, with a sad smile of farewell, crawled into the
cyclone cellar and closed the steel doors.

The Indian entered the barber shop.

"You are next!" said Sniffles, politely.

"I know it," said the Indian; "but I was put next only an hour
ago--hence the delay. The bay rum, please!"

"You want it for the hair?" inquired the barber.

"No, I want it for a souse," said the Indian.

"Get in the chair, please!" said the barber.

"Man-Behind-The-Snip-Snap speaks foolish," said the Indian. "I am not
for a hair cut; I am for that bay rum idea. Heap thirst! Don't keep me
waiting!"

The barber turned pale as the awful truth flashed across him.

"What is your name?" he said painfully.

"Man-Afraid-Of-A-Shampoo," said the Indian, sullenly.

"Nice Indian! pretty Indian! good Indian! You are not compelled to get
your hair cut, you know!" said the barber, wishing to avoid bloodshed.

"Paleface give me heap pain," said Man-Afraid-Of-A-Shampoo, fiercely.