the last bars of the melody. He had smiled in welcome as Ingolby
entered, instantly rising from his stool, but continuing to play. He
would not have stopped in the middle of a tune for an emperor, and he put
Ingolby higher than an emperor. For one who had been born a slave, and
had still the scars of the overseer's whip on his back, he was very
independent. He cut everybody's hair as he wanted to cut it, trimmed
each beard as he wished to trim it, regardless of its owner's wishes.
If there was dissent, then his customer need not come again, that was
all. There were other barbers in the place, but Berry was the master
barber. To have your head massaged by him was never to be forgotten,
especially if you found your hat too small for your head in the morning.
Also he singed the hair with a skill and care, which had filled many a
thinly covered scalp with luxuriant growth, and his hair-tonic, known as
"Smilax," gave a pleasant odour to every meeting-house or church or
public hall where the people gathered. Berry was an institution even in
this new Western town. He kept his place and he forced the white man,
whoever he was, to keep his place.

When he saw Jethro Fawe enter the shop he did not stop playing, but his
eyes searched the newcomer. Following his glance, Ingolby turned round
and saw the Romany. His first impression was one of admiration, but
suspicion was quickly added. He was a good judge of men, and there was
something secluded about the man which repelled him. Yet he was
interested. The dark face had a striking racial peculiarity.

The music died away, and old Berry lowered the fiddle from his chin and
gave his attention to the Romany.

"Yeth-'ir?" he said questioningly.