The head barber, nearest the door, stood like a barber in a tableau.  His left hand held stretched between thumb and forefinger an elastic section of his helpless customer’s cheek, while his right hand hung poised above it, the razor motionless.  And then, roused from trance by the door’s closing, he accepted the fact of Sheridan’s presence.  The barber remembered that there are no circumstances in life—­or just after it—­under which a man does not need to be shaved.

He stepped forward, profoundly grave.  “I be through with this man in the chair one minute, Mist’ Sheridan,” he said, in a hushed tone.  “Yessuh.”  And of a solemn negro youth who stood by, gazing stupidly, “You goin’ resign?” he demanded in a fierce undertone.  “You goin’ take Mist’ Sheridan’s coat?” He sent an angry look round the shop, and the barbers, taking his meaning, averted their eyes and fell to work, the murmur of subdued conversation buzzing from chair to chair.

“You sit down one minute, Mist’ Sheridan,” said the head barber, gently.  “I fix nice chair fo’ you to wait in.”

“Never mind,” said Sheridan.  “Go on get through with your man.”

“Yessuh.”  And he went quickly back to his chair on tiptoe, followed by Sheridan’s puzzled gaze.

Something had gone wrong in the shop, evidently.  Sheridan did not know what to make of it.  Ordinarily he would have shouted a hilarious demand for the meaning of the mystery, but an inexplicable silence had been imposed upon him by the hush that fell upon his entrance and by the odd look every man in the shop had bent upon him.

Vaguely disquieted, he walked to one of the seats in the rear of the shop, and looked up and down the two lines of barbers, catching quickly shifted, furtive glances here and there.  He made this brief survey after wondering if one of the barbers had died suddenly, that day, or the night before; but there was no vacancy in either line.

The seat next to his was unoccupied, but some one had left a copy of the “Extra” there, and, frowning, he picked it up and glanced at it.  The first of the swollen display lines had little meaning to him: 

  Fatally Faulty.  New Process Roof Collapses Hurling Capitalist to
  Death with Inventor.  Seven Escape When Crash Comes.  Death Claims—­

Thus far had he read when a thin hand fell upon the paper, covering the print from his eyes; and, looking up, he saw Bibbs standing before him, pale and gentle, immeasurably compassionate.

“I’ve come for you, father,” said Bibbs.  “Here’s the boy with your coat and hat.  Put them on and come home.”

And even then Sheridan did not understand.  So secure was he in the strength and bigness of everything that was his, he did not know what calamity had befallen him.  But he was frightened.

Without a word, he followed Bibbs heavily out throught the still shop, but as they reached the pavement he stopped short and, grasping his son’s sleeve with shaking fingers, swung him round so that they stood face to face.