ly a member of the Dominion Cabinet.

Everybody knew Jeff and liked him, but the odd thing was that till he
made money nobody took any stock in his ideas at all. It was only after
he made the "clean up" that they came to see what a splendid fellow
he was. "Level-headed" I think was the term; indeed in the speech of
Mariposa, the highest form of endowment was to have the head set on
horizontally as with a theodolite.

As I say, it was when Jeff made money that they saw how gifted he was,
and when he lost it,--but still, there's no need to go into that. I
believe it's something the same in other places too.

The barber shop, you will remember, stands across the street from
Smith's Hotel, and stares at it face to face.

It is one of those wooden structures--I don't know whether you know
them--with a false front that sticks up above its real height and gives
it an air at once rectangular and imposing. It is a form of architecture
much used in Mariposa and understood to be in keeping with the
pretentious and artificial character of modern business. There is a red,
white and blue post in front of the shop and the shop itself has a large
square window out of proportion to its little flat face.

Painted on the panes of the window is the remains of a legend that once
spelt BARBER SHOP, executed with the flourishes that prevailed in the
golden age of sign painting in Mariposa. Through the window you can see
the geraniums in the window shelf and behind them Jeff Thorpe with his
little black scull cap on and his spectacles drooped upon his nose as he
bends forward in the absorption of shaving.

As you open the door, it sets in violent agitation a coiled spring up
above and a bell that almost rings. Inside, there are two shaving chairs
of the heavier, or electrocution pattern, with mirrors in front of them
and pigeon holes with individual shaving mugs. There must be ever so
many of them, fifteen or sixteen. It is the current supposition of each
of Jeff's customers that everyone else but himself uses a separate mug.
One corner of the shop is partitioned off and bears the sign: HOT AND
COLD BATHS, 50 CENTS. There has been no bath inside the partition for
twenty years--only old newspapers and a mop. Still, it lends distinction
somehow, just as do the faded cardboard signs that hang against the
mirror with the legends: TURKISH SHAMPOO, 75 CENTS, and ROMAN MASSAGE,
$1.00.

They said commonly in Mariposa that Jeff made money out of