'Why, I can almost hear the cherubim singing in the Garden,' Samuel protested. 'How you figure Doom? Shake my hand. I'll bet and take your money!'

The jalopy swerved around a corner through a wind that smelled of turpentine and whitewash. Samuel threw out a gum wrapper, snorting. He was somewhat surprised at what happened next. An old man in new overalls, with mirror–bright shoes, ran out in the street, grabbed the crumpled gum wrapper and shook his fist after the departing jalopy.

'Doom…' Samuel Fitts looked back, his voice fading. 'Well.., the bet still stands.'

They opened the door upon a barber–shop teeming with customers whose hair had already been cut and oiled, whose faces were shaved close and pink, yet who sat waiting to vault back into the chairs where three barbers flourished their shears and combs. A stock–market uproar filled the room as customers and barbers all talked at once.

When Willy and Samuel entered, the uproar ceased instantly. It was as if they had fired a shot–gun blast through the door.

'Sam.. .Willy…'

In the silence some of the sitting men stood up and some of the standing men sat down, slowly, staring.

'Samuel,' said Willy out of the corner of his mouth, 'I feel like the Death standing here.' Aloud he said, 'Howdy! Here I am to finish my lecture on the "Interesting Flora and Fauna of the Great American Desert", and –

'No!'

Antonelli, the head barber, rushed frantically at Willy, seized his arm, clapped his hand over Willy's mouth like a snuffer on a candle. 'Willy,' he whispered, looking apprehensively over his shoulder at his customers. 'Promise me one thing: buy a needle and thread, sew up your lips. Silence, man, if you value your life!'