"Huh?" Thurwinker asked, incredulously.
"Look." Goma pointed to his hair. "It grow. When the people see it grow
they will not let me be Chief any more."
"You mean--you want another--"
"No!" Goma roared. He shuddered. "Not want haircut!"
"Well, what _do_ you want, Chief?" Thurwinker asked, puzzled.
"I am Chief. I am brave. Bad man hurt me. People say I am not brave. I
am not Chief any more. I am brave. I let bad man torture me. I am Big
Chief." Again he pointed to his hair. "It grow. People soon see it grow
and I will not be Chief unless I get haircut again."
"Oh," Thurwinker nodded. "When your hairs grows out you'll have to get
another haircut or you won't be Chief. Is that it?"
"Yes," Goma mumbled. There was a silence. Then Goma asked,
"Other--people--cut hair?"
"No," Thurwinker informed. "Just barber."
"Bar-ber." Goma turned the unfamiliar word around on his tongue.
"Bar-ber. I will fix," he grunted. "I kill bar-ber." He arose and
started for the door.
"No, no, no! Wait, wait!!" Thurwinker jumped to block Goma's way. After
much persuasion, he got Goma back into his chair again. "Big Chief," he
said, slowly. "You are right. Bar-ber is very bad man."
It was obvious that Goma agreed. "I kill?" he suggested, hopefully.
"No, no," Thurwinker replied, craftily. "You can not kill."
This puzzled Goma. "I can not kill?" he asked.
"No. Bar-ber would cut hair."
Goma closed his eyes and shook. "I can not kill," he agreed.
"Maybe bar-ber go away?" Thurwinker suggested. "Far away?"