I’ll wager you ten dollars that my fly gets off the mirror before yours does. I’ll take that bet, friend. The dozen or so of waiting customers lounging in Abe Morris’s barber shop looked up with signs of renewed life. I’ll make it twenty, continued the first speaker. I follow you, assented the second speaker. Truly, if men must do so trivial a thing as squander their money on idle bets, here was a novel enough contest. Each of the bettors sat in a chair, tucked up in white to the chin. Each was having his hair cut. At the same moment a fly had lighted on each of the mirrors before the two customers.