“An’ neither do I,” answered Greensbury Jones. “All of em’s evil, specially if they’s black an’ got blue gums.”

“I’s done told you to hush,” said Pete Scott behind the first chair, where he was clipping Jap Logan’s hair. “Ma wife’s black herself, so don’t start talkin’ ’bout no blue gums! I’s tired o’ this here female talk anyhow. This is ma shop, an’ ma razors sho can cut somethin’ else ’sides hair—so now just keep on talkin’ ’bout blue gums!”

“I see where Bryant’s runnin’ for president agin,” said Greensbury Jones.

But one Saturday, while the proprietor was out to snatch a bite to eat, a discussion came up as to who was the prettiest colored girl in town. Was she yellow, high-brown, chocolate, or black? Of course, there was no agreement, but names were mentioned and qualities were described. One girl had eyes like Eve herself; another had hips like Miss Cleopatra; one smooth brown-skin had legs like—like—like—

“Aw, man! De Statue of Liberty!” somebody suggested when the name of a famous beauty failed the speaker’s memory.

“But, feller, there ain’t nothin’ in all them rainbow shades,” a young teamster argued against Uncle Dan Givens, who preferred high yellows. “Gimme a cool black gal ever’ time! They’s too dark to fade—and when they are good-looking, I mean they are good-looking! I’m talkin’ ’bout Harrietta Williams, too! That’s who I mean! Now, find a better-looking gal than she is!”

“I admits Harrietta’s all right,” said the old man; “all right to look at but—sput-t-tsss!” He spat contemptuously at the stove.

“O, I know that!” said the teamster; “but I ain’t talkin’ ’bout what she is! I’m talkin’ ’bout how she looks. An’ a songster out o’ this world. Don’t care if she is a—!”

“S-s-s-sh! Soft-pedal it brother. One of the men nudged the speaker. “There’s one o’ the Williamses right here—that kid over yonder shinin’ shoes’s Harriett’s nephew or somethin’ ’nother.”

“You niggers talks too free, anyhow,” one of the barbers added. “Somebody gwine cut your lips off some o’ these days. De idee o’ ole Uncle Dan Givens’ arguin’ ’bout women and he done got whiskers all round his head like a wore-out cheese.”

“That’s all right, you young whip-snapper,” squeaked Uncle Dan heatedly. “Might have whiskers round ma head, but I ain’t wore out!”

Laughter and smoke filled the little shop, while the winter wind blew sleet against the big plate-glass window and whistled through the cracks in the doorway, making the gas lights flicker overhead. Sandy smacked his polishing cloth on the toes of a gleaming pair of brown button shoes belonging to a stranger in town, then looked up with a grin and said: “Yes, sir!” as the man handed him a quarter.

“Keep the change,” said the new-comer grandly.

“That guy’s an actor,” one of the barbers said when the man went out. “He’s playin’ with the Smart Set at the Opery House tonight. I bet the top gallery’ll be full o’ niggers sence it’s a jig show, but I ain’t goin’ anear there myself to be Jim-Crowed, cause I don’t believe in goin’ nowhere I ain’t allowed to set with the rest of the folks. If I can’t be the table-cloth, I won’t be the dish-rag—that’s my motto. And if I can’t buy the seats I want at a show, I sure God can keep my change!”