“There ain’t no woman in the world whose feet are the right size.”
“Then we’ll set a record to-night. How big ought they to be for a hundred and twenty pounds?”
“That all depends. If the lady is—”
“The lady ain’t,” repeated Carrigan wearily. “I’m tellin’ you we’re making her here.”
The proprietor wiped his forehead.
“Number four?” he suggested vaguely. “Let’s have a look. Make it something like this.”
He indicated a pair of bronze slippers, but when the storekeeper produced the pair of number fours, Carrigan took one of them in the palm of his brawny hand and stared at it with something between awe and dismay.
“Are these meant for real feet?”
“Yep.”
Carrigan thought of the mighty brogans he had seen on Jac’s feet.