urveying him critically, "but
it is not usual for anybody in our situation to be worrying about the
length and abundance of his hair."

"I'm sure I'd be a lot better if I could get it cut close."

"Well, well, if you are taking it so much to heart we'll see what can be
done. You are ill and wasted, Edward, and when one is in that condition
a little thing can affect his spirits. De Zavala is a friendly sort of
young fellow and through him we will send a request to Colonel Sandoval,
the commander of the prisons, that you be allowed to have your hair
cut."

"If you please, Uncle Steve," said Ned gratefully.

Mr. Austin was not wrong in his forecast about Lieutenant de Zavala. He
showed a full measure of sympathy. Hence a petition to Colonel Martin
Sandoval y Dominguez, commander of prisons in the City of Mexico, was
drawn up in due form. It stated that one Edward Fulton, a Texan of
tender years, now in detention at the capital, was suffering from the
excessive growth of hair upon his head. The weight and thickness of said
hair had heated his brain and destroyed his appetite. In ordinary cases
of physical decline a physician was needed most, but so far as young
Edward Fulton was concerned, a barber could render the greatest service.

The petition, duly endorsed and stamped, was forwarded to Colonel Martin
Sandoval y Dominguez, and, after being gravely considered by him in the
manner befitting a Mexican officer of high rank and pure Spanish
descent, received approval. Then he chose among the barbers one Joaquin
Menendez, a dark fellow who was not of pure Spanish descent, and sent
him to the prison with de Zavala to accomplish the needed task.

"I hope you will be happy now, Edward," said Mr. Austin, when the two
Mexicans came. "You are a good boy, but it seems to me that you have
been making an undue fuss about your hair."

"I'm quite sure I shall recover fast," said Ned.

It was hard for him to hide his happiness from the others. He felt a
thrill of joy every time the steel of the scissors clicked together and
a lock of hair fell to the floor. But Joaquin Menendez, the barber, had
a Southern temperament and the soul of an artist. It pained him to
shear away--"shear away" alone described it--such magnificent hair. It
was so thick, so long and so glossy.

"Ah," he said, laying some of the clipped locks across his hand and
surveying them sorrowfully, "so great is the pity! What senorita could
resist the young senor i