“Yes, the moment the portrait’s done,” said Gregson, in generous accents.
“Are you afraid I’ll walk off in ’em?” Matt cried, angrily. “And suppose they don’t fit?”
“Ah, well; you may try them on,” conceded Gregson. And, with a curious repetition of a former episode, Matt slipped off his boot under a street-lamp. The boots were a little tight, especially after the yawning laxness of the old; but it was heavenly to stamp on the wet pavement and to feel a solid sole under one’s foot, even though an oozy, sloppy stocking intervened.
Gregson perceived the ruin of the vacant boot, and his face grew stern.
“Keep it on, keep it on,” he said, harshly. “You’re an old customer.”
“Oh, thank you!” ejaculated Matt.
“You can give me the old pair,” he rejoined, gruffly.
“Oh, but they’re past mending,” said Matt.
“But they can help to mend other boots. They’re like clergymen,” said the little shoemaker, laughing grimly. “Nothing is ever wasted in this world.”
Matt was thinking so too, though from a different point of view. He was grateful to the economical order of the universe.