“Very.”
“There you are, then!” said he triumphantly. “Sell me the garments for a lot o' money. I'm soft on swell garments. Take the cash an' give it to charity. Le's begin with shoes. How many pair of shoes woild you say the untimely victim had?” Mirth quivered at the corners of the fairy's soft lips, “He wasn't an untimely victim. He was seventy-six years old and he had gout so dreadfully that he had to have one shoe made much longer than the other.”
My companion's face fell, but immediately brightened with hope. “Which foot?”
She considered. “The left.”
“If they was right in size an' price,” he mused, “they might do for the Little Red Doctor.”
The brown-and-gold fairy's eyes widened. “For whom?” she asked.
“The Little Red Doctor.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“Because he's little an' red-headed an' the smartest doctor in N'York. An' if your loved-an'-lost one had had him, he'd be alive to-day,” he added with profound conviction.
“Where does he live?”