Tarr

Tarr turned to Hobson, and seized him, conversationally, by the hair. "Well, Walt Whitman, when are you going to get your hair cut?" "Why do you call me Walt Whitman?" "Would you prefer Buffalo Bill? Or is it Shakespeare?" "It is not Shakespeare—" "‘Roi je ne suis: prince je ne daigne.’—That’s Hobson’s choice.—But why so much hair? I don’t wear my hair long. If you had as many reasons for wearing it long as I have, we should see it flowing round your ankles!" "I might ask you under those circumstances why you wear it short. But I expect you have good reasons for that, too. I can’t see why you should resent my innocent device. However long I wore it I should not damage you by my competition—" Tarr rattled the cement match-stand on the table, and the garçon sang "Toute suite, toute suite!"