Mr. Pottle was a barber, but also a man of imagination, and as his hands
went through their accustomed motions, his mind was far away, recalling
what he had read the night before.
"Bright Marquesas sunlight glinted from the cutlass of the
intrepid explorer as with a sweep of his arm he brought the
blade down on the tattooed throat of the man-eating savage."
Mr. Pottle's errant mind was jerked back sharply from the South Seas to
Granville, Ohio, by a protesting voice.
"Hey, Pottle, what's bitin' you? You took a slice out o' my Adam's apple
that time."
Mr. Pottle, with apologetic murmurs, rubbed the wound with an alum
stick; then he dusted his victim with talcum powder, and gave the
patented chair a little kick, so that its occupant was shot bolt
upright.
"Bay rum?" asked Mr. Pottle, professionally.
"Nope."
"Dandruff-Death?"
"Nope."
"Sweet Lilac Tonic?"
"Nope."
"Plain water?"
"Yep."
"Naked savages danced and howled round the great pot in which
the trussed explorer had been placed. The cannibal chief,
fire-brand in hand, made ready to ignite the fagots under the
pot. It began to look bad for the explorer."
Again a shrill voice of protest punctured Mr. Pottle's day-dream.
"Hey, Pottle, come to life! You've went and put Sweet Lilac Tonic on me
'stead of plain water. I ain't going to no coon ball. You've gone and
smelled me up like a screamin' geranium."
"Why, so I have, so I have," said Mr. Pottle, in accents of surprise and
contrition. "Sorry, Luke. It'll wear off in a day or two. Guess I must
be gettin' absent-minded."
"That's what you said last Saddy when you clipped a piece out o' Virgil
Overholt's ear," observed Luke, with some indignation. "What's bitin'
you, anyhow, Pottle? You used to be the best barber in the county before
you took to readin' them books."
"What books?"
"All about cannibals and explorers and the South-Sea Islands," answered
Luke.
"They're good books," said Mr. Pottle warmly. His eyes brightened. "I
just got a new one," he said. "It's called 'Green Isles, Brown
Man-Eaters, and a White Man.' I sat up till two readin' it. It's about
the Marquesas Islands, and it's a darn' excitin' book, Luke."
"It excited you so much you sliced my Adam's apple," grumbled Luke,
clamping on his rubber collar. "You had better cut out this fool
readin'."
"Don't you ever read, Luke?"
"Sure I do. 'The Mornin' News-Press' for week-days, 'The P'lice Gazette'
when I come here to get shaved Saddy nights, and the Bible for Sundays.
That's readin' enough for any man."
"Did you ever read 'Robinson Crusoe'?"
"Nope, but I heard him."
"Heard him? Heard who?"
"Crusoe," said Luke, snapping his ready-tied tie into place.
"Heard him? You couldn't have heard him."
"I couldn't, hey? Well, I did."
"Where?" demanded Mr. Pottle.
"Singin' on a phonograph," said Luke.
Mr. Pottle said nothing; Luke was a regular customer, and in successful
modern business the customer is always right. However, Mr. Pottle seized
a strop and by his vigorous stroppings silently expressed his disgust at
a man who hadn't heard of "Robinson Crusoe," for Robinson was one of Mr.
Pottle's deities.
When Luke reached the door, he turned.
"Say, Pottle," he said, "if you're so nutty about these here South Sea
Islands, why don't you go there?"
Mr. Pottle ceased his stropping.
"I am going," he said.
Luke gave a dubious hoot and vanished. He did not realize that he had
heard Mr. Pottle make the big decision of his life.