"Easy, easy!" said Moore, clutching the bottom of the stool, to keep from being shoved off it. "You are not pushing a cart, even if you are driving a bargain, Mr. Slink."
"There you are," exclaimed the cobbler, sitting on his heels as he wiped the perspiration from his wrinkled brow. "There you are. A beautiful fit, or may I be unworthy of Matilda."
"Your merit, Mr. Slink, has already been proved if your previous statements are authentic," said Moore. "Statistics bear me out, my friend. I am quite convinced you are a splendidly matched pair."
"Well, sir, this other boot is just as good a match for the one you have on."
"Try it, Mr. Slink, try it. There is nothing like doing things thoroughly. I know Matilda and you agree with me there."
Slink obediently started to fit the other shoe, finding some little difficulty in doing so, for Moore contrived to make the operation a very difficult one, and for a purpose, as will be seen later.
"You are an artist, Mr. Slink," said Moore, approvingly. "Look at the boot, Buster. Did you ever see better?"
"Never 'as 'ow Hi remembers. Oh, Mr. Slink his a tiptopper when it comes to shoes heven if Mr. Smirk hallows 'as 'ow 'ee 's a bloomink bungler," replied Buster, winking at his master. "But, hof corse, Mr. Smirk, being a bachelor, 'ee hain't as careful as 'ee might be. 'Ee says 'ee 'as no wife to beat 'im as hothers 'ee says 'ee knows hof in the same business 'as."
"If that baldheaded leather-spoiler means me, all I have to say is that no decent woman would consider matrimonially no such rum-soaked old ravellings as that same Smirk," replied Mr. Slink, puffing at his work. "He has no pride in his handiwork. His shoes lack all soul, spirituously speaking."
"Pride," repeated Moore, with a grimace of discomfort. "That shoe will have to be pried before I can wear it. Oh! It is tight, Mr. Slink, cursedly tight, Mr. Slink. Were you yourself quite sober when you made it?"