As Cathead reached the bottom of the stairs, Sube dived under the bed. And as Cathead entered the pantry, Sube darted up the attic stairs and threw the tainted clothes far into the darkness. From the splash that followed he feared they might have landed in the rain water tank, but that could not be helped now. As he rapidly slid down the attic stairs he was thoroughly in sympathy with those who shed their brothers' blood so far as disposing of the corpus delicti was concerned.

Sube had reached his room in safety when he heard Cathead angrily scuffing up the stairs; and, wishing to have the appearance of doing something, he stepped over to the bureau and picked up a hairbrush. But when he took off his cap the hairbrush dropped from his nerveless fingers. His mutilated scalp fairly screamed at him!

In the excitement of the fight he had forgotten all about it. But there was no time to lose. Cathead was at the door. Sube mechanically pulled his cap far on his head, and sank limply down on the bed as Cathead came into the room peevishly charging him with being the biggest fibber out of captivity.

"There wasn't a cookie there, and you know it!" he cried.

"Annie must've hid 'em," returned Sube feebly.

Cathead's anger subsided as he caught sight of his brother's livid countenance. "What's the matter of you?" he asked.

"Nuthin'."

"You're as white as paper," declared Cathead. Then catching sight of his brother's swollen lip which in the semi-darkness of the hallway had escaped his notice, he asked, "How'd you hurt your lip?"

The natural thing would have been to tell Cathead the truth, all the truth, and nothing but the truth. But Sube did not care to do this. Not that he was afraid Cathead would tell; he had no thought of that. In regard to their joint delinquencies Cathead had always been absolutely leak-proof. Sube simply did not wish to put himself in Cathead's power; so he took what he considered to be the easiest way.

"Huh? My lip?" he temporized as he tried to think of a plausible explanation. "Why,—why, I—I bumped 'at against the door," he got out finally.

"Prob'ly that's what makes you so pale," suggested Cathead. "Lay down a minute and you'll be all right."

Sube was glad to follow this advice.

"You ain't told me what you're all dressed up for," Cathead reminded him presently.

"I can't find my other clo's, I tole you," growled Sube. "I'll bet mama's gone and given 'em to the Salvation Army or something."

"How long since you couldn't find 'em?"

"Took 'em off jus' soon as I got home, and I ain't seen 'em since."

"That's funny," muttered Cathead as he began a cursory search for the missing garments. A moment later he called from the bathroom, "Hey, Sube, I've found out what smells so bad!"

"What?" asked Sube with a note of alarm.

"It's the water! Something must of got into the cistern. I'll bet it's another cat."

Sube gave one long futile breath that put into words would have said, "What next!" It was a bad matter. But it was not so pressing as a certain other bad matter. Something had to be done about his incompleted haircut—and done quickly. No explanation could be made that was not likely to lead to very unpleasant disclosures. His only salvation was a real haircut. And that of necessity involved the expenditure of a sum of money he did not possess.

Sube knew Cathead had money—Cathead always had money—and he at once began a series of flattering offers to sell anything he possessed. But Cathead was thrifty. The commercial instinct was strong in him. He realized that the time to buy is when the other fellow wants to sell; but he did not become over anxious. He said he was not in the market. Neither was he conducting a loan office. Of course, if it was made worth his while, why,—he might think of it.

This bickering nearly drove Sube mad. Time for the evening meal was drawing near. He could hear his father's voice downstairs. In his desperation he made up a job lot containing everything of his in which Cathead had ever betrayed an interest, and struck it off for thirty pieces of copper.

Cathead grasped the psychology of the moment. "I'll take you up," he said promptly. "Come on down stairs while I get the money out of my bank."

Sube went only too willingly. In the library he encountered his father.

"Where is your cap, Sube?" reminded Mr. Cane.

"Yes, I know it," Sube explained. "I didn't forget it; you see, I'm goin' right out again."

"But as long as you are in the house—"

"Yes, sir; I'll take it right off."

Sube made a feint at his cap with one hand as he snatched some coins from Cathead with the other, and darted for the door.

"Seward!" called Mr. Cane sternly. "Come here!"

Bang! The front door closed with sufficient violence to jar the entire house as Sube dashed up the street. Sube had heard his father's voice plainly in spite of the fact that he continued to assure himself that he had not.

He had proceeded only a short distance from home when Nancy Guilford and her mother loomed up before him. Sube rarely overlooked an opportunity to demonstrate to Mrs. Guilford his Chesterfieldian manners. But to-day he dodged past with nothing more than a bourgeois twitch at his cap; and railing under his breath at an unkind fate he sped on towards the barber shop.

But alas, he was too late. The door was locked, and the barber, in company with his wife, was just turning away as Sube came panting up.

"Mr. McInness! Mr. McInness!" he called feverishly as he caught sight of the retreating tonsorial.

Mr. McInness glanced back, then paused expectantly.

"I got here just in time!" Sube puffed. "I want to get my hair cut."

The barber scowled and looked at his watch. "Too late, son," he said. "You'll have to wait till to-morrow. It's after six."

"But I can't wait till to-morrow," Sube returned in his most persuasive tone. "I got to get it cut now!"

The barber shook his head. "Nuthin' doin', son," he said. "I run a union shop. If I didn't close up at six, the union'd be on my neck inside of thirty seconds." He made a move to start on. "You come back in the mornin' and I'll fix you up fine!"

Sube clutched desperately at the barber's sleeve. "I can't wait!" he pleaded. "I got to get it done right now!"

"I can't take no chances!" declared the barber positively. "I've had the union after me twic't already. If you want to get it cut to-night, why, you'll have to go somewheres else."

"Where can I go?" asked Sube quickly.

"Well,—I don't know as I could tell you no place," responded the barber dubiously. "Every shop in town belongs to the union."

The agonized expression on Sube's face was too much for the barber's wife. "What seems to be the trouble?" she asked kindly. "Tell me about it."

Here was a chance for aid from an unexpected quarter; but it was fraught with danger. Mrs. McInness's sister was a teacher in the school Sube attended. He must have a care what he told her.

"It's on account of my father," he finally managed to say, as he assumed a martyred expression.

"Your father?" she asked clearly puzzled.

"Yes, ma'am. He's pretty bad to-night!"

"Why, he isn't sick, is he? I saw him on the street this afternoon."

"Not sick, exactly," Sube improvised cautiously. "The doctor says it's his mind—"

"His mind!" gasped Mrs. McInness. "Is his mind affected?"

"What?—Well—it's more his—his nerves! You see, he can't bear to look at anybody who needs a haircut. It makes him nervous, you see. And he told me to get my hair cut this afternoon, but I was so busy goin' to school and then goin' home and doin' all the work that I forgot it. And when he come home a few minutes ago and saw I hadn't got it cut, he ordered me out of the house and told me never to darken his door again till I'd got my hair cut!"

Mrs. McInnes was dumbfounded. "Your father told you that!" she cried at length. "Why, I always thought he was one of the kindest men I ever knew!"

"He's kind in—in his office—and—and on the street," stammered Sube; "but the minute he gets home his nerves fly up and he loses control of himself—"

"And your father told you never to darken his door again?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, ma'am," Sube replied with emotion as he stared hard at the toe of his shoe. "Not till I'd got my hair cut."

Mrs. McInness drew her husband aside and conversed with him in a low tone.

"Pretty fishy—" Sube heard him mumble.

"But when a person's mind is affected ... there's no telling—" he heard Mrs. McInness saying.

After a moment came the barber's bass rumble again: "That'd be rulable if he'd been in the chair, or even in the shop waitin', but—"

This gave Sube another idea. "When my father drove me out of the house," he said modestly, "I did my best to satisfy him. I ran as fast as I could to the nearest barber shop—that's Bill Grayson's. Maybe it ain't exactly the nearest, but it's the quickest because I don't have to turn any corners—you know I always come to your shop if I can. Well, I got to Bill Grayson's just before six o'clock. I got in the chair and Bill started on me with the clippers; but the minute the whistles blew, he fired me right out of the chair and wouldn't finish the job! Why! Jus' look here!" he cried dramatically, snatching off his cap. "Look how he left me! I don't dare go home like this!"

The barber and his wife were astounded.

"Bill Grayson done that to you!" exclaimed Mr. McInness.

"Yes, sir, he did," replied Sube virtuously.

Mrs. McInness turned quickly to her husband. "There!" she challenged. "He was in the chair at six o'clock and his hair was partly cut! You said that would be rulable yourself!"

"But he wasn't in my chair, or even in my shop! There's somethin' doggone' funny about this. Just as like as not Bill Grayson has fixed a frame-up on me to get me in bad with the union. I ain't goin' to take no chances—"

"Joe McInness!" his wife bristled defiantly, "you may belong to the union, but I don't!—Give me the key to that shop! I'm going to finish clipping that boy's hair!"

Sube was a little late for supper, but he came in with a broad smile—broad though rather forced—and a neatly shingled head.

"Hey, everybody look at me!" he called cheerfully. "I've got the first shingle of the season, and I paid for it with my own money, too! And, mama, can I go to prayer meeting with Giz Tobin to-night? I'm all dressed for it."

Mrs. Cane had gladly given her consent when Cathead threw a bomb into the happy home circle.

"Sube wasn't at school this afternoon," he announced.

"What's that?" demanded Mr. Cane glaring at Sube. "Do you mean to say that after all I said to you—?"

Sube had begun to shrivel under his father's relentless gaze when Cathead interjected:

"But there wasn't any school in his room! So many of the kids went to Mag Macdougall's funeral that Miss Wheeler had to dismiss the room, didn't she, Sube?"

Sube huskily admitted that she did, while Cathead bemoaned the misfortune of his being in another room, and Mr. Cane showed signs of being relieved, although he was at the same time annoyed at Cathead's forwardness