The barber was laughing. "Set down, Mr. John."
"I suppose the whole of Westways knows it, Mr. Josiah?"
"They do, sir. Wish I'd seen it."
"Damn!" exclaimed John, swearing for the first time in his life. "Cut my
hair short, please, and don't talk."
"No, sir. You ain't even got a scratch."
"Oh, do shut up," said John. There was a long silence while the curly
locks fell.
"You gave it to the Baptist man hot. I don't like him. He calls me Joe.
It isn't respectable. My name's Josiah."
"Haven't you any other name?" said John, having recovered his
good-humour.
"Yes, sir, but I keeps that to myself."
"But why?" urged John.
Josiah hesitated. "Well, Mr. John, I ran away, and--so it was best to get
a new name."
"Indeed! Of course, every one knows you must have run away--but no one
cares."
"Might say I was run away with--can't always hold a horse," he laughed
aloud in a leisurely way. "When he took me over the State-line, I didn't
go back."
"I see," said John laughing, as he rose and paid the barber. The cracked
mirror satisfied him that he was well shorn.
"You looks a heap older now you're shorn. Makes old fellows look
younger--ever notice that?"
"No."
Then Josiah, of a sudden wisely cautious, said, "You won't tell Mrs.
Penhallow, nor no one, about me, what I said?"
"Of course not; but why my aunt, Mr.
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