Dolly Gray took us and the shoes of the deceased cousin on our way. The day's journey ended in front of the Little Red Doctor's office. The Little Red Doctor looked up from some sort of complicated mechanism which he was making for crippled Molly Rankin (who could never by any possibility pay him for it) and appeared astonished at the sight of the very elegant footwear which Dead-Men's-Shoes extended to him.
“What for?” he asked. “I'm not buying second-hand shoes.”
“Ask the dominie,” said Dead-Men's Shoes.
“They're a present,” I explained.
The Little Red Doctor looked both puzzled and suspicious. “They won't fit my queer foot,” he objected.
“Try,” encouraged Dead-Men's-Shoes.
The Little Red Doctor tried on the left boot. “Pretty good,” he said. He stood up to stamp his foot down. Then he bounded into the air like a springbok, and on alighting, tore off the shoe, saying something harsh and profane about practical jokers. “There's a pin in it,” he growled.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Dead-Men's-Shoes, greatly perturbed at this evidence of woman's perfidy. “An' her in the sollim presence of death, too!”
“Her? Who?” demanded the Little Red Doctor, looking up from his explorations after the pin.
“Dadmun,” said I, “you are too loquacious. Go out and look after Dolly Gray.”