“And swore he couldn’t get his feet into ’em,—leastwise,” he added correctively, “he didn’t swear—Max is too good to swear—he said as he couldn’t get his feet in ’em.”
“Tut—tut—tut!” ejaculated Mrs Shingle, stitching away at her work.
“He blowed me up fine; said I wasn’t fit to shoe a horse, let alone a Christian man. When—look at ’em. Did you ever see a prettier pair—eh, Hoppy?” he shouted.
The old man glanced at the boots and grunted, turning away again directly.
“Look at ’em, mother—rights and lefts, and the soles polished off smooth; and see how prettily they put out their tongues at you, all lined with a bit o’ scarlet basil. Called me a cobbler, too, he did; and after laying myself out on the artistic tack, so as to get his future patronage, and that of Mrs S.’s two boys.”
“Oh, Dick, Dick!”
“Yes, it is ‘Oh, Dick, Dick!’ Bad, too, as we want the money. Wouldn’t fit you, I suppose, Hoppy?”
“Hey?”
“I say they wouldn’t fit you, would they? You should have ’em cheap.”
“Bah, no! I couldn’t wear boots like these. Couldn’t afford it—couldn’t afford it. There’s a pair for you to mend.”