Reservation.

   "What is it, Mike?" said Sniffles, the barber.

   "Hist!"

   Again that ominous word, and Mike pointed feverishly at the distant horizon.

   On it an Indian was walking, steadfastly, onward, onward, onward!

   Remorseless as a gas bill the Indian came onward to the barber shop.

   Sniffles, the barber, jumped quickly into his armor-plated working 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.

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