“Down in Our Square—No. 11, on the East Side; office hours nine to one. If you was any ways ailin' you couldn't do better'n to call.”
“And there is something the matter with his left foot?” she pursued, ignoring this well-meant advice. “What?”
“It's dummed hard to fit,” replied Dead-Men's-Shoes disconsolately.
“I can tell you,” I interjected. “He injured it while swimming.”
“Oh!” said the brown-and-gold fairy. “And—and this gentleman's description of him is accurate?”
“But not adequate,” I said. “He is wise (a confirmatory nod from the brown-and-gold fairy) and brave (another nod) and unselfish (a third nod) and obstinate (two nods) and beautiful—”
“Oh!” said the brown-and-gold fairy, with obvious disappointment.
“—to us who know him, I mean.” She smiled up at me. “And his name is Smith.”
“It is,” I averred.
At this juncture Dead-Men's-Shoes, who had been fidgeting on his wagon seat, deemed it time to interfere in the interests of commerce. “Don't butt in, dominie,” he protested in an injured aside. “These mourners has to be handled with tac'. It takes a professional. You're spoilin' trade.”