This, being in the agreement, was done — though a little reluctantly — with an eye to the future, the sign being carefully put away in a drawer.
"Now, then, for the writing," said the cosmopolitan, squaring himself. "Ah," with a sigh, "I shall make a poor lawyer, I fear. Ain't used, you see, barber, to a business which, ignoring the principle of honor, holds no nail fast till clinched. Strange, barber," taking up the blank paper, "that such flimsy stuff as this should make such strong hawsers; vile hawsers, too. Barber," starting up, "I won't put it in black and white. It were a reflection upon our joint honor. I will take your word, and you shall take mine."
"But your memory may be none of the best, sir. Well for you, on your side, to have it in black and white, just for a memorandum like, you know."
"That, indeed! Yes, and it would help your memory, too, wouldn't it, barber? Yours, on your side, being a little weak, too, I dare say. Ah, barber! how ingenious we human beings are; and how kindly we reciprocate each other's little delicacies, don't we? What better proof, now, that we are kind, considerate fellows, with responsive fellow-feelings — eh, barber? But to business. Let me see. What's your name, barber?"
"William Cream, sir."
Pondering a moment, he began to write; and, after some corrections, leaned back, and read aloud the following: "AGREEMENT "Between "FRANK GOODMAN, Philanthropist, and Citizen of the World, "and "WILLIAM CREAM, Barber of the Mississippi steamer, Fidиle.
"The first hereby agrees to make good to the last any loss that may come from his trusting mankind, in the way of his vocation, for the residue of the present trip; PROVIDED that William Cream keep out of sight, for the given term, his notification of 'No TRUST,' and by no other mode convey any, the least hint or intimation, tending to discourage men from soliciting trust from him, in the way of his vocation, for the time above specified; but, on the contrary, he do, by all proper and reasonable words, gestures, manners, and looks, evince a perfect confidence in all men, especially strangers; otherwise, this agreement to be void.
"Done, in good faith, this 1st day of April, 18 — , at a quarter to twelve o'clock, P. M., in the shop of said William Cream, on board the said boat, Fidиle."
"There, barber; will that do?"
"That will do," said the barber, "only now put down your name."
Both signatures being affixed, the question was started by the barber, who should have custody of the instrument; which point, however, he settled for himself, by proposing that both should go together to the captain, and give the document into his hands — the barber hinting that this would be a safe proceeding, because the captain was necessarily a party disinterested, and, what was more, could not, from the nature of the present case, make anything by a breach of trust. All of which was listened to with some surprise and concern.
"Why, barber," said the cosmopolitan, "this don't show the right spirit; for me, I have confidence in the captain purely because he is a man; but he shall have nothing to do with our affair; for if you have no confidence in me, barber, I have in you. There, keep the paper yourself," handing it magnanimously.
"Very good," said the barber, "and now nothing remains but for me to receive the cash."
Though the mention of that word, or any of its singularly numerous equivalents, in serious neighborhood to a requisition upon one's purse, is attended with a more or less noteworthy effect upon the human countenance, producing in many an abrupt fall of it — in others, a writhing and screwing up of the features to a point not undistressing to behold, in some, attended with a blank pallor and fatal consternation — yet no trace of any of these symptoms was visible upon the countenance of the cosmopolitan, notwithstanding nothing could be more sudden and unexpected than the barber's demand.
"You speak of cash, barber; pray in what connection?"
"In a nearer one, sir," answered the barber, less blandly, "than I thought the man with the sweet voice stood, who wanted me to trust him once for a shave, on the score of being a sort of thirteenth cousin."
"Indeed, and what did you say to him?"
"I said, 'Thank you, sir, but I don't see the connection.'"
"How could you so unsweetly answer one with a sweet voice?"
"Because, I recalled what the son of Sirach says in the True Book: 'An enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips;' and so I did what the son of Sirach advises in such cases: 'I believed not his many words.'" Note: [43.4]
"What, barber, do you say that such cynical sort of things are in the True Book, by which, of course, you mean the Bible?"
"Yes, and plenty more to the same effect. Read the Book of Proverbs."
"That's strange, now, barber; for I never happen to have met with those passages you cite. Before I go to bed this night, I'll inspect the Bible I saw on the cabin-table, to-day. But mind, you mustn't quote the True Book that way to people coming in here; it would be impliedly a violation of the contract. But you don't know how glad I feel that you have for one while signed off all that sort of thing."
"No, sir; not unless you down with the cash."
"Cash again! What do you mean?"
"Why, in this paper here, you engage, sir, to insure me against a certain loss, and —»
"Certain? Is it so certain you are going to lose?"
"Why, that way of taking the word may not be I amiss, but I didn't mean it so. I meant a certain loss; you understand, a CERTAIN loss; that is to say, a certain loss. Now then, sir, what use your mere writing and saying you will insure me, unless beforehand you place in my hands a money-pledge, sufficient to that end?"
"I see; the material pledge."
"Yes, and I will put it low; say fifty dollars."
"Now what sort of a beginning is this? You, barber, for a given time engage to trust man, to put confidence in men, and, for your first step, make a demand implying no confidence in the very man you engage with. But fifty dollars is nothing, and I would let you have it cheerfully, only I unfortunately happen to have but little change with me just now."
"But you have money in your trunk, though?"
"To be sure. But you see — in fact, barber, you must be consistent. No, I won't let you have the money now; I won't let you violate the inmost spirit of our contract, that way. So good-night, and I will see you again."
"Stay, sir" — humming and hawing — "you have forgotten something."
"Handkerchief? — gloves? No, forgotten nothing. Good-night."
"Stay, sir — the — the shaving."
"Ah, I did forget that. But now that it strikes me, I shan't pay you at present. Look at your agreement; you must trust. Tut! against loss you hold the guarantee. Good-night, my dear barber."
With which words he sauntered off, leaving the barber in a maze, staring after.
But it holding true in fascination as in natural philosophy, that nothing can act where it is not, so the barber was not long now in being restored to his self-possession and senses; the first evidence of which perhaps was, that, drawing forth his notification from the drawer, he put it back where it belonged; while, as for the agreement, that he tore up; which he felt the more free to do from the impression that in all human probability he would never again see the person who had drawn it. Whether that impression proved well-founded or not, does not appear. But in after days, telling the night's adventure to his friends, the worthy barber always spoke of his queer customer as the man-charmer — as certain East Indians are called snake-charmers — and all his friends united in thinking him QUITE AN ORIGINAL.