“Will you have them?” cried the old man, eagerly. “Name your own price! Don’t be afraid. I sha’n’t ask more than last time.”
But Matt shook his head. “I’m hard up,” he confessed, blushing in the lamplight.
“I’ll trust you,” was the fervid response.
“I’d never pay you,” Matt protested, “unless I could do something for you in return. If you want,” he hesitated, “your shop painted, or any wall-papering, or—or I could build you a counter, or—”
But the shoemaker was shaking his head. “I don’t want my shop painted—but ’ow if you painted me?” he cried, with an inspiration. “I’ve often tried to do it myself, but some’ow an angelic expression gets into it, and the missus don’t recognize it. Have you ever tried doin’ your own portrait, Strang?”
“No—not seriously,” said Matt.
“Well, you try, and see if you don’t find it as I say. It’s a curious thing how that angelic expression will creep in when a man’s paintin’ his own portrait. Besides, you can paint better than me; I don’t say it behind your back, but—”
“Then it’s a bargain?” interrupted Matt, anxiously.
“Yes; I can give you an hour every mornin’. Trade’s so slack, unfortunately.”
“May I take the boots with me?” inquired Matt.