PARTNERS.
Jack Fernie and William Black became partners in the usually pleasant business of seeing something of the world.
What the two men had in common was little enough so far as I could discover. They appeared to meet on the common ground of boots—uncommon boots.
Fernie hated wet feet. He argued that if water got in over the top of the boot, the foot remained damp all day, which was bad for you. So he punched holes through the leather of the uppers, all round, just where it bends in to meet the soles. He explained that since water must find its own level, it will run out of your boots as readily as it will run in, if given a fair chance.
Black went in constant dread of developing an ingrowing toenail, so he wore boots with two compartments inside, one for the big toe and the other for the rest. They were very ugly, clumsy boots, but Black declared that they were a sure preventive and very comfortable.
These two strange creatures were never tired of discussing each other's boots.
Now Fernie had been second officer on board a liner. On the way home from India he had said unrepeatable things to a parson. When he arrived in London his directors sent for him, scolded him severely, and dismissed him from their service.
When I got to know Fernie well, I asked him what all the trouble had been about. He was not very communicative; he merely said that he could no more abide a black coat than he could a black cat. With that he changed the subject, and I had to be content.
Black had slaved as a clerk in the City for thirty-five years and doubtless would have remained one for the rest of his natural life had not an old lady, no relation of his, left him in her will a sum of money which provided him with an income of between six and seven hundred a year. There was no mention of the why and the wherefore in the will, and Black declared that he couldn't imagine why she did him this good turn.