The New Year’s days have come, the saddest of the year—when every dub a
fellow knows swears off on booze and beer. Oh, say! But doesn’t it make
you tired—this swearing off business?
I went down the line on New Year’s morning, from the Malton to the
Singum House, and every man I asked to take a smile cocked his eye,
shook his head and croaked “water wagon.” I went back to the Malton,
pulled Dug out of bed, and could hardly wait for him to dress before I
hurried him into the bar for a morning’s morning. D— a man, I say, who
doesn’t know when he has enough. That was the toast we drank to, and
before we had worn that toast out we certainly had enough and we knew
it.
We did some great calling on New Year’s day, but a fellow can’t call at
every booze joint in the Quaker City without having a load he can feel.
In our wanderings for new booze joints to conquer, we accidentally got
into a barber shop. I think it was the bottles of colored fluid that
attracted us. We were trying to find an excuse for coming in when I saw
a sign which read: “No one allowed to tip the barbers.”
“Good,” said I to myself; “here is one place where we play even.” I
called Dug’s attention to it, and we planted ourselves in chairs. That
was the slickest shave I ever got, and the barber I had—why, he ought to
have been a trained nurse: he was so solicitous of my health and
comfort.
“This not allowing you chaps to take any tips is a great scheme,” said
I. “How do you like it?”
“Like it,” said the barber; “it’s great. And we make more this way than
we did before.”
“More pay, I suppose?”
“No, we get the same pay.”
“Then how can you make more?” The barber laughed.
“Then you ain’t on?” said he. “It’s the slickest ever. You notice that
little fancy cup on the shelf?”