Lida was having no difficulty in locating the landlord. He stood just beyond the dining-room door and was proclaiming that he was the boss and was shaking his fist under the nose of a surly youth who had allowed several dishes to slide off a tray and smash on the floor. "Do you want to hire a waitress from the city?" she demanded. "You bet a tin dipper I do," snapped back Brophy. "I'm ready to begin work at once. If you'll show me my room----" "You go up one flight, by them stairs there, and you pick out the best room you can find--the one that suits you! That's how much I'm willing to cater to a city waitress. And you needn't worry about wages." "I shall not worry, sir." She hurried up the stairs. The hostler-waiter slammed down the tray with an ejaculation of thankfulness. Brophy picked up the tray and banged it over the youth's head. "You ain't done with the hash-wrassling till she has got her feet placed. Sweep up that litter, stand by to do the heavy lugging, and take your orders from her and cater to her--cater!" Latisan, lingering on the porch, had hearkened and observed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dingy glass of the door. He scrubbed his hand doubtfully over his beard. Then he turned and hurried away. The single barber shop of Adonia was only a few yards from the door of the tavern. There was one chair in the corner of a pool room. Latisan overtook a man in the doorway and yanked him back and entered ahead. "I'm next!" shouted the supplanted individual. "Yes, after me!" declared Latisan, grimly. He threw himself into the chair. "Shave and trim! Quick!" The barber propped his hands on his hips. "What's the newfangled idea of shedding whiskers before the drive is down?" "Shave!" roared Latisan. "And if you're more than five minutes on the job I'll carve my initials in you with your razor." So constantly did he apostrophize the barber to hurry, wagging a restless jaw, that blood oozed from several nicks when the beard had been removed. "I've got a pride in my profession, just the same as you have in your job," stormed the barber when Latisan refused to wait for treatment for the cuts. "And I don't propose to have you racing out onto the streets----" But the drive master was away, obsessed by visions of that fresh drummer presuming further in his tactics with the new waitress. The barber, stung to defense of his art, grabbed a towel and a piece of alum and pursued Latisan along the highway and into the tavern office, cornered the raging drive master, and insisted on removing the evidences which publicly discredited good workmanship. The affair was in the nature of a small riot.