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 and then look for a barber. It is ten or eleven months before America's entry into the war, but the "preparedness" enthusiasts are having some kind of celebration in Los Angeles, and the streets are a mass of red and white bunting; I walk a long distance, and find half a dozen places with red and white ribbons wound about poles, but they are not barber-shops. At last, however, I find one, just in the nick of time, and at ten o'clock sharp I present myself, all freshly groomed, to the charming ladies of the club, and am escorted onto the platform.

My theme is "The Voice of the Ages," and I bring with me a copy of "The Cry for Justice," and read passages from eminent ancient authors, startling my hearers by the revelation that Plato and Euripides and Isaiah and Jesus and Confucius and Dante and Martin Luther and George Washington were all members of the I. W. W. of their time. I read them Isaiah on "Ladies of Fashion"—all save one obscene sentence, which could not be uttered before modern ladies. I give them just exactly the proper number of thrills, mixed with the proper number of smiles, and they bombard me with questions for an hour, and we have a most enjoyable time.

But one tragedy befalls. I am quoting Frederick the Great on the subject of Militarism, and am moved to mention the fact that Los Angeles is now in a military mood. "I promised my wife I would get a hair-cut before I came here, but I almost missed it, because there were so many red and white decorations on the streets that I couldn't find a barber-shop." The instant the words were out of my mouth, I realized that I had, as the boys say, "spilled the beans." Driving home with a friend who is a member of the club, she told me what a success the lecture had been, and I replied: "Ah, no, you are mistaken! I ruined everything!"

"How?" asked my friend.

"Didn't you hear me confuse the American flag with a barber-pole?"

"Nonsense!" said my friend. "They all laughed."

"May be so," said I. "But wait until you see the papers tomorrow morning!"

And sure enough, it was as I said! Next morning the "Los Angeles Times" published an account of the lecture, in which I was portrayed as a dandified creature who had appeared before the ladies decked in tennis flannels. Having since met Alma Whitaker, the woman who wrote this account,