"Yessuh." And of a solemn negro youth who stood by, gazing stupidly,
"You goin' RESIGN?" he demanded in a fierce undertone. "You goin'
take Mist' Sheridan's coat?" He sent an angry look round the shop,
and the barbers, taking his meaning, averted their eyes and fell to
work, the murmur of subdued conversation buzzing from chair to chair.
"You sit down ONE minute, Mist' Sheridan," said the head barber,
gently. "I fix nice chair fo' you to wait in."
"Never mind," said Sheridan. "Go on get through with your man."
"Yessuh." And he went quickly back to his chair on tiptoe, followed
by Sheridan's puzzled gaze.
Something had gone wrong in the shop, evidently. Sheridan did not
know what to make of it. Ordinarily he would have shouted a hilarious
demand for the meaning of the mystery, but an inexplicable silence had
been imposed upon him by the hush that fell upon his entrance and by
the odd look every man in the shop had bent upon him.
Vaguely disquieted, he walked to one of the seats in the rear of
the shop, and looked up and down the two lines of barbers, catching
quickly shifted, furtive glances here and there. He made this brief
survey after wondering if one of the barbers had died suddenly, that
day, or the night before; but there was no vacancy in either line.
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