“Yes,” said Ben, “that was the hardest part of it all. Phronsie wanted red-topped ones, and that scared Polly and me dreadfully; for there was only a little bit of a chance that Mr. Beebe would have any, you know, and”—
“But he did,” interrupted Phronsie eagerly, and leaning forward to look into old Mr. King’s face. “My dear Mr. Beebe did have red-topped shoes; he did, Grandpapa.”
The only answer the old gentleman gave was to clasp her closer to his breast, while Polly hurried on.
“Well, such a time as we had getting into old Mr. Beebe’s shop,” she cried, holding up both hands; “dear me! I thought we never should begin to try on those shoes, and then”—
“And there were, oh, so many shoes!” cried Phronsie, clasping her hands, “hanging up in the window, and”—
“Yes, and rubber boots,” broke in Joel; “I always wanted them, Dave and I did. But we never got them,” he added under his breath.
“Yes, just lots and lots of shoes,” Polly was saying; “but that wasn’t anything to the ones inside. Why, they hung up all around the shop, just every place a shoe could hang. Oh! and there were ever so many in boxes too; and old Mr. Beebe keep pulling out one after another, and he had them tucked under the shelves and everywhere else. And it did smell so nice and lovely of beautiful leather;” she sighed in delight at the remembrance.
“Tell about the pink-and-white sticks, Polly,” begged Davie, pulling gently at her sleeve.