I’ve been sitting here for nearly two hours trying to get this baby to sleep, he growled.
Why, Robert, I’ve got him here in bed with me, replied his wife.
Absalom Foote, an eccentric old man, who had grown tired of life in the city, decided to move to some smaller town, free from the roar of traffic, the bustle and confusion of the thronging multitude, where he could end his days tranquilly, as became a man of his age. In casting about for a location, his eyes chanced to light upon the advertisement in a village paper of one Thomas R. Foote, who wanted to dispose of his boot and shoe store at a bargain, having made up his mind to remove to the city.
That’s the very thing, he said, selling shoes is a very nice, easy occupation. It will give me just enough to do to keep me from stagnating, and it won’t wear me out with overwork. I’ll investigate it. It’s queer, though, that his name is Foote, my name is Foote, he wants to come to the city, and I want to go to the country.
A visit to the little town decided him. He liked its appearance and location. He was pleased, moreover, with Foote’s shoe store, and bought it good will and all, at a bargain.
Well, said the other Mr. Foote, you won’t have to change the sign.
No, he answered slowly, I’ll just add a little to it.
The next day he added this, just below the sign—
This place has changed feet.