Then, turning to Jack Pierson, he said:
“Good-morning, sir. Can I do somedings for you?”
“Are you the shoemaker?” asked John.
“Am I a shoemaker? Am I a shoemaker? Vell, I shust say I vos a shoemaker. And I can make a pair of shoes vile you vait, if you vait long enough. Say, who are you?”
“It’s none of your business. This lady here has knocked the heel of her shoe off, and she wants you to put it on. That’s enough for you to know; so get busy.”
“All right, all right,” said the old man, taking his seat on the bench and preparing for his work.
Dopey took a stool and sat down facing the old man, putting his own foot, encased in a very dilapidated shoe, almost in the old man’s face, at the same time leering at the old man very unpleasantly, who said:
“Oie, oie! Vot a face. You looks like a pull-dog. Vat you vant. A patch for de plack eye—eh?”
“Never mind me mug,” said Dopey, insolently, “nor me lamp. What’ll it cost me to get me skates fixed?—dey’s in a bad way.”
“Vell, you pring me a pair of soles, unt I’ll put some uppers on dem.”