“No,” said Matt, wishing Gregson wouldn’t see him now, and edging a little away from a street-lamp.
“No,” said Matt, sticking his toes downward to hide the gaps as far as possible.
“You won’t forget I am at your service whatever you want,” said the little stooping old man, with shining enthusiastic eyes. “It is a pleasure to work for a man with feet like yours. I was only thinkin’ of you to-night at the studio—a scurvy wretch has been servin’ me a shabby trick, and I was thinkin’ to myself: Ah, Four—ah, Strang, there’s a difference now! Strang’s a man and a brother artist. This bloke’s a ’artless biped.”
“Why, what did he do?”
“There’s no need to go into details,” said William Gregson, pathetically. “Suffice it to say he refuses the boots. And here they are. A beautiful pair! Left on my hands! After I sat up half the night to finish ’em for him, trade’s so brisk just now.”
He unwrapped the package to expose their perfections.
“And what will you do with them?” said Matt.
“I’d like to put ’em on and kick him with ’em,” replied Gregson, gloomily. “Only they’re too small.” Gregson’s own feet were decidedly not beautiful.
“Yes, they seem more my size,” agreed Matt.