“It’s been in the papers, no doubt.”
“So it has,” he said; “I saw it myself in a newspaper that I bought this evening, to read in the train. It called me the ‘Golden Shoemaker.’”
“Ah!” cried Miss Jemima. “I’ve no doubt it will go the round.” The good lady was not greatly averse to such a pleasant publication of the family name.
“Well,” she resumed, “what do the other letters say?”
They were all similar to the first. One was from a man who had invented a new boot sewing-machine, and would take out a patent; another purported to came from a widow with six young children, and begged for a little—ever so little—timely help: and the other two were appeals on behalf of religious institutions.
“Penalty of wealth!” remarked Miss Jemima, as she took the letters from her brother’s hand.
“I suppose I must answer them to-morrow,” groaned “Cobbler” Horn.
“Answer them!” exclaimed Miss Jemima. “If you take my advice, you’ll throw them into the fire. There will be plenty more of the same sort soon. Though,” she added thoughtfully, “you’ll have to read your letters, I suppose; for there’ll be some you’ll be obliged to answer.”
“Well,” said “Cobbler” Horn quietly, as they turned to the stairs, “we shall see.”