“To get the grub,” chuckled Peter, cobbling away.

“Peter, if you make a jest of everything, I’ll not waste my time on you.”

Denzil’s wild eyes flashed angrily.  He shook his long hair.  Life was very serious to him.  He never wrote comic verse intentionally.

There are three reasons why men of genius have long hair.  One is, that they forget it is growing.  The second is, that they like it.  The third is, that it comes cheaper; they wear it long for the same reason that they wear their hats long.

Owing to this peculiarity of genius, you may get quite a reputation for lack of twopence.  The economic reason did not apply to Denzil, who could always get credit with the profession on the strength of his appearance.  Therefore, when street arabs vocally commanded him to get his hair cut, they were doing no service to barbers.  Why does all the world watch over barbers and conspire to promote their interests?  Denzil would have told you it was not to serve the barbers, but to gratify the crowd’s instinctive resentment of originality.  In his palmy days Denzil had been an editor, but he no more thought of turning his scissors against himself than of swallowing his paste.  The efficacy of hair has changed since the days of Samson, otherwise Denzil would have been a Hercules instead of a long, thin, nervous man, looking too brittle and delicate to be used even for a pipe-cleaner.  The narrow oval of his face sloped to a pointed, untrimmed beard.  His linen was reproachable, his dingy boots were down at heel, and his cocked hat was drab with dust.  Such are the effects of a love for the Beautiful.

Peter Crowl was impressed with Denzil’s condemnation of flippancy, and he hastened to turn off the joke.

“I’m quite serious,” he said.  “Butterflies are no good to nothing or nobody; caterpillars at least save the birds from starving.”

“Just like your view of things, Peter,” said Denzil.  “Good morning, madam.”  This to Mrs. Crowl, to whom he removed his hat with elaborate courtesy.

Mrs. Crowl grunted and looked at her husband with a note of interrogation in each eye.  For some seconds Crowl stuck to his last, endeavouring not to see the question.  He shifted uneasily on his stool.  His wife coughed grimly.  He looked up, saw her towering over him, and helplessly shook his head in a horizontal direction.  It was wonderful how Mrs. Crowl towered over Mr. Crowl, even when he stood up in his shoes.  She measured half an inch less.  It was quite an optical illusion.

“Mr. Crowl,” said Mrs. Crowl, “then I’ll tell him.”

“No, no, my dear, not yet,” faltered Peter, helplessly; “leave it to me.”

“I’ve left it to you long enough.  You’ll never do nothing.  If it was a question of provin’ to a lot of chuckleheads that Jollygee and Genesis, or some other dead and gone Scripture folk that don’t consarn no mortal soul, used to contradict each other, your tongue’ud run thirteen to the dozen.  But when it’s a matter of takin’ the bread out o’ the mouths o’ your own children, you ain’t got no more to say for yourself than a lamp-post.  Here’s a man stayin’ with you for weeks and weeks—­eatin’ and drinkin’ the flesh off your bones—­without payin’ a far—­”