J. Archibald McKackney
whiskers pulled out with pincers, every last hair of em. Do you fathom what that meant? With a face as clean as a billiard ball I was no longer fit to be with men. I was disrated, cast out, dishonored, fit only to do wimmin's work. And they made me do it. It was that or starve. They put me to work in the laundry, doing up the royal whisker covers what was put on by the King and his Cabinet at night, same as we use nightcaps. There is things worse than death, just as the Good Book says that the bite of an ungrateful son is more grievous than the sting of a serpent."
The unfortunate parent let his head sink between his shoulders like a mournful old bird on its roost, and wiped one beady eye with the cuff of his sleeve. It seemed indelicate to press him with questions, and Hank Wilkins and I waited in attitudes of respectful attention. At length the parent rubbed his smooth and shining chin with the back of his hand, and the touch of it awoke his wrath to seek vent in speech.
"Doomed to wander whiskerless over the
