“But are there no strangers staying here?”
“There’s three or four on ’em come in to dinner; but they’ll be wanting their own boots I’m thinking. And there’s young Misther Dillon; he’s come to stay. But Lord love you—” and he again looked at the enormous extent which lay between the heel and the toe of the shooting apparatus which he still held in his hand. “I niver see such a foot as that in the whole barony,” he said, “barring my own.”
Now Larry was a large man, much larger altogether than myself, and as he said this I looked down involuntarily at his feet; or rather at his foot, for as he stood I could only see one. And then a sudden hope filled my heart. On that foot there glittered a shoe—not indeed such as were my own which were now resting ingloriously at Ballyglass while they were so sorely needed at Castle Conor; but one which I could wear before ladies, without shame—and in my present frame of mind with infinite contentment.
“Let me look at that one of your own,” said I to the man, as though it were merely a subject for experimental inquiry. Larry, accustomed to obedience, took off the shoe and handed it to me. My own foot was immediately in it, and I found that it fitted me like a glove.
“And now the other,” said I—not smiling, for a smile would have put him on his guard; but somewhat sternly, so that that habit of obedience should not desert him at this perilous moment. And then I stretched out my hand.
“But yer honer can’t keep ’em, you know,” said he. “I haven’t the ghost of another shoe to my feet.” But I only looked more sternly than before, and still held out my hand. Custom prevailed. Larry stooped down slowly, looking at me the while, and pulling off the other slipper handed it to me with much hesitation. Alas! as I put it to my foot I found that it was old, and worn, and irredeemably down at heel;—that it was in fact no counterpart at all to that other one which was to do duty as its fellow. But nevertheless I put my foot into it, and felt that a descent to the drawing-room was now possible.
“But yer honer will give ’em back to a poor man?” said Larry almost crying. “The masther’s mad this minute becase the dinner’s not up. Glory to God, only listhen to that!” And as he spoke a tremendous peal rang out from some bell down stairs that had evidently been shaken by an angry hand.
“Larry,” said I—and I endeavoured to assume a look of very grave importance as I spoke—“I look to you to assist me in this matter.”
“Och—wirra sthrue then, and will you let me go? just listhen to that,” and another angry peal rang out, loud and repeated.
“If you do as I ask you,” I continued, “you shall be well rewarded. Look here; look at these boots,” and I held up the shooting-shoes new from Burlington Arcade. “They cost thirty shillings—thirty shillings! and I will give them to you for the loan of this pair of slippers.”