on a foxtrot all free and
clear, and before the orchestra has swung into the next one-step they've
said the fatal words that gets 'em pushing a baby carriage within a
year. Same with a lot of other moves that count big.

Gettin' Buddy wished on us, for instance. I remember, I wasn't payin'
much attention to what the barber was sayin'. You don't have to, you
know; 'specially when they're like Joe Sarello, who generally has a lot
to say. He'd been discoursin' on several subjects--how his cousin Carmel
was gettin' on with his coal and wood business up in New Rochelle, what
the League of Nations really ought to do to the Zecho-Slovacks, how much
the landlord has jumped his rent, and so on.

Then he begun talkin' about pups. I was wonderin' if Joe wasn't taking
too much hair off the sides, just above the ears. He's apt to when he
gets runnin' on. Still, I'd rather take a chance with him than get my
trimmin' done in the big shop at the arcade of the Corrugated Buildin',
where they shift their shear and razor artists so often you hardly get
to know one by sight before he's missin'. But Joe Sarello, out here at
Harbor Hills, with his little two-chair joint opposite the station, he's
a fixture, a citizen. If he gets careless and nicks you on the ear you
can drop in every mornin' and roast him about it. Besides, when he opens
a chat he don't have to fish around and guess whether you're a reg'lar
person with business in town, or if you're a week-end tourist just blown
in from Oconomowoc or Houston. He knows all about you, and the family,
and your kitchen help, and about Dominick, who does your outside work
and tends the furnace.

He was tellin' me that his litter of pups was comin' on fine. I expect I
says "Uh-huh," or something like that. The news didn't mean much to me.
I was about as thrilled as if he'd been quotin' the f. o. b. price of
new crop Brazil nuts. In fact, he'd mentioned this side line of his
before. Barberin' for commuters left him more or less time for such
enterprises. But it might have been Angora goats he was raisin', or
water buffalo, or white mice.

"You no lika da dogs, hey?" asks Joe, kind of hurt.

"Eh?" says I, starin' critical into the mirror to see if he hadn't
amputated more from the left side than the right. "Oh sure! I like dogs
well enough. That is, real doggy dogs; not these little imitation parlor
insects, like Poms and Pekes and such. Ain't raisin' that kind, are you,
Joe?"

Joe chuckles,