twelve years, John.

THE CUSTOMER. I'm on my back, helpless!

THE BARBER. You'd _run_ if I let you up.

THE CUSTOMER. But give me a chance! Kilburn, give me--

THE BARBER. (_Interrupting_) No, John, you get no chance. You
gave Jennie none. (_He pauses._) She was just eighteen when you
came to our town. She was only a child, John, only a child. Her
mother was dead. I was all she had--and she was all I had. And I
was trying to bring her up right--to make her the same kind of a
woman her mother had been, if you know what that means.

THE CUSTOMER. I didn't--

THE BARBER. Don't tell me what you did and what you didn't! She
loved you--and--and I trusted you. You were going to get married.
You took her away with you--and you _didn't_ marry her! Marriage?
Why, you never thought of it! You couldn't get her any other way
--you wanted her--and you got her! You didn't care about me, and
you didn't care about her. She was a toy. She amused you, and
when you were through with her, you flung her into the gutter! It
makes me sick to think of it! (_He goes on more quietly._) She
came home six months later. How she got back all the way from
where you'd taken her, I don't know--and I don't like to guess.
And then-then--

THE CUSTOMER. I'll marry _her_ now, Kilburn.

THE BARBER. You'll have to ask her about that.

THE CUSTOMER. (_Eagerly_) Well?

THE BARBER. In two minutes you'll be _able_ to ask her.

THE CUSTOMER. What do you mean?

THE BARBER. She's dead, John--dead.

(_THE CUSTOMER groans. Then, suddenly, he tries to rise. THE
BARBER places his hand over his forehead and eyes, and forces him
back into the chair._)

THE BARBER. Thirty seconds for your prayers, John!

THE CUSTOMER. Don't kill me, man! Don't kill me! I'm not fit to
die! I'm not ready! A minute! Two minutes! I'm too young! Don't
kill--

(_THE BARBER, still with his hand upon the other man's eyes,
suddenly seizes a wet towel and strikes him across the throat
with it. THE CUSTOMER faints. THE BARBER looks at him
contemptuously; abruptly raises the chair to a sitting position;
puts away the razor._)

THE BARBER. So your nerve gave way, John? Your nerve gave way?
(_He spreads the towel over THE CUSTOMER's face and roughly wipes
away the lather._)

THE CUSTOMER. (_Beginning to come to; faintly_) Where am I?

THE BARBER. You ought to be in hell, but I guess you're still on
God's good earth.

THE CUSTOMER. (_Putting his hand to his throat_) You--y