raceful form of Henry Johnson.

"Chee!" said Reifsnyder. He and his assistant with one accord threw
their obligations to the winds, and leaving their lathered victims
helpless, advanced to the window. "Ain't he a taisy?" said Reifsnyder,
marvelling.

But the man in the first chair, with a grievance in his mind, had
found a weapon. "Why, that's only Henry Johnson, you blamed idiots!
Come on now, Reif, and shave me. What do you think I am--a mummy?"

Reifsnyder turned, in a great excitement. "I bait you any money that
vas not Henry Johnson! Henry Johnson! Rats!" The scorn put into this
last word made it an explosion. "That man was a Pullman-car porter or
someding. How could that be Henry Johnson?" he demanded, turbulently.
"You vas crazy."

The man in the first chair faced the barber in a storm of indignation.
"Didn't I give him those lavender trousers?" he roared.

And young Griscom, who had remained attentively at the window, said:
"Yes, I guess that was Henry. It looked like him."

"Oh, vell," said Reifsnyder, returning to his business, "if you think
so! Oh, vell!" He implied that he was submitting for the sake of
amiability.

Finally the man in the second chair, mumbling from a mouth made timid
by adjacent lather, said: "That was Henry Johnson all right. Why, he
always dresses like that when he wants to make a front! He's the
biggest dude in town--anybody knows that."

"Chinger!" said Reifsnyder.

[Illustration: "'Henry Johnson! Rats!'"]

Henry was not at all oblivious of the wake of wondering ejaculation
that streamed out behind him. On other occasions he had reaped this
same joy, and he always had an eye for the demonstration. With a face
beaming with happiness he turned away from the scene of his victories
into a narrow side street, where the electric light still hung high,
but only to exhibit a row of tumble-down houses leaning together like
paralytics.

The saffron Miss Bella Farragut, in a calico frock, had been crouched
on the front stoop, gossiping at long range, but she espied her
approaching caller at a distance. She dashed around the corner of the
house, galloping like a horse. Henry saw it all, but he preserved the
polite demeanor of a guest when a waiter spills claret down his cuff.
In this awkward situation he was simply perfect.

The duty of receiving Mr. Johnson fell upon Mrs. Farragut, because
Bella, in another room, was scrambling wildly into her best gown. The
fat old woman met him w