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of the place.
    Our introduction to this, for want of a better word, “malignancy” happened thusly.
    After lodging at my cousin’s farm, Tom and I set out in our wagon for the marketplace in the center of town in order to purchase gum mastic and those of my paint powders that had begun to run low in Lakeworth. Tom took along with us a dozen handbills on which he would inscribe in his fine hand the name of the first hotel, shop, or tavern that he could persuade to allow some corner for my studio. Then he would paste up our advertisements among the flapping crowd of hornswoggleries promising Extraordinary Novelties! and Unprecedented Entertainments!
    I was returning to our appointed rendezvous with the supplies I had purchased when I noticed a small crowd milling expectantly about the entrance to the main hotel. Four men holding shears, razor, shaving lather, and rope waited upon the stone steps by the door. Below these steps a butcher’s cart waited.
    Shortly, a tall, burly man with the most magnificent sandy beard I think I have ever seen, short of God’s own growth as portrayed by the masters, emerged from the hotel. He appeared to be the butcher, but before he could reach his cart or even descend the steps, these four men laid hands upon him. Instinctively I stepped aside from the gathering mob. I must have uttered a small cry of surprise, for three dishevelled children looked at me and began to laugh, crying “Oh! Oh!” as if to ridicule by imitation.
    These four men had thrown the butcher upon the stone steps, attempting to subdue him and, it was by now clear to everyone, cut off his glorious beard.
    â€œShave him! Shave him!” the crowd began to jeer. There was much excitement and laughter, as if some circus menagerie were unfolding for their amusement.
    At that moment, from somewhere, Tom flew to my side and held me by one arm. We watched the battle in horror and fascination, and this was not the last time in our adventures that I was glad for Tom’s company.
    â€œWhat the devil has gotten into these people?” he whispered, pulling me to him.
    As we watched, poised for flight, the bearded man, who was a strong, muscular fellow, suddenly threw off his assailants long enough to fetch from his vest pocket a gleaming jackknife, which he began to lash about at the legs of his panting tormentors. Two of the men feeling the lick of his blade called out in odd high voices and limped quickly away. They were soon followed across the blood- and sweat-stained stone by the other two as yet untouched conspirators.
    At first sight of the knife, the ever-growing mob had begun to howl, and now two constables, encouraged by the people, proceeded to arrest the unfortunate butcher as if he were the assailant, instead of a man defending himself. Sulky, nodding with grim satisfaction at the hirsute man’s arrest, the people finally began to disperse in knots of gossip.
    Tom and I left, stopping only long enough to collect his handbills and cancel a notice he had placed in the newspaper.
    â€œBeards I know are out of fashion,” Tom said as we drove back to my cousin’s farm, “but can such violence arise from petty intolerance?”
    When we reached his farm, we told my cousin what we had seen.
    â€œOh, that’s Old Jew Perry,” he said, laughing a little. “Asa Perry. Bit of an eccentric, I’m afraid.”
    â€œSo he was attacked as a Jew?” I asked.
    â€œOh no! Not as a Jew, just so-called. For the beard, you see. No, he was raised Church of England, I believe, but he’s an infamous crank hereabouts. He won’t shave the thing off no matter how many times some have requested it of him. He has his principles, you see. The more folks want it off, the less likely he is to bend to their wishes.” He laughed again, completely unsympathetic to the seriousness of the unprovoked attack.
    By way of explanation, he recounted an instance of how Mr.