Then, as I think I said, Mr. Smith came in every morning and there
was a tremendous outpouring of Florida water and rums, essences and
revivers and renovators, regardless of expense. What with Jeff's
white coat and Mr. Smith's flowered waistcoat and the red geranium in
the window and the Florida water and the double extract of hyacinth,
the little shop seemed multi-coloured and luxurious enough for the
annex of a Sultan's harem.

But what I mean is that, till the mining boom, Jefferson Thorpe never
occupied a position of real prominence in Mariposa. You couldn't, for
example, have compared him with a man like Golgotha Gingham, who, as
undertaker, stood in a direct relation to life and death, or to
Trelawney, the postmaster, who drew money from the Federal Government
of Canada, and was regarded as virtually a member of the Dominion
Cabinet.

Everybody knew Jeff and liked him, but the odd thing was that till he
made money nobody took any stock in his ideas at all. It was only
after he made the "clean up" that they came to see what a splendid
fellow he was. "Level-headed" I think was the term; indeed in the
speech of Mariposa, the highest form of endowment was to have the
head set on horizontally as with a theodolite.

As I say, it was when Jeff made money that they saw how gifted he
was, and when he lost it,--but still, there's no need to go into
that. I believe it's something the same in other places too.

The barber shop, you will remember, stands across the street from
Smith's Hotel, and stares at it face to face.