In the same slow, reflective manner, the fisherman unbuttoned the straps of his waders at the thigh, and sat down to unlace his brogues.
“Here,” he said, “pull 'em off for me. They're so damnably sopped.”
He held up his leg, and the convict pulled off the wet fishing-stockings with some technical skill.
He drew them on over his own stockinged legs, and the fisherman kicked the brogues towards him. In exchange the convict handed him his own shoes.
“Am I to wear these?” the fisherman asked, with something in his voice that might have been amusement.
“Yes; they're a little out of shape, I'm afraid. The Queen is no judge of a shoe.”
“I guess not!” answered the other, lacing.
There was a little silence.
“I suppose,” said the convict, with a curious eagerness, “that you have seen a bit of the world?”
“Here and there,” answered the other, searching for the return half of his ticket.