"H-h-have you the m-money for the b-boots, Mr. M-M-Moore?" he inquired, holding his parcel behind him as though fearful that he might be robbed.
"Ah, sir," replied Moore, suavely, "money fits any hand, but my foot does n't fit every shoe. I 'll try them on if you are not too tired."
"Y-yes, s-sir," replied Smirk, with difficulty unwrapping his package.
"Your words are as slow as my rent," said Moore, sitting down.
The cobbler dropped heavily on his knees, and losing his balance, fell forward on Moore's lap almost knocking him off the stool.
"It is n't time to lie down yet," said the poet, restoring the tradesman to his equilibrium. "You forgot your prayers, sir."
Smirk succeeded in getting one of the boots on without much difficulty, but the other stuck fast in spite of the earnest endeavors of its maker.
"Is it a straight jacket you have there, Mr. Smirk?" demanded Moore. "Don't trouble to answer me. It will take too long. You will have to have that stretched, sir."
"Y-yes, s-sir," replied the cobbler, "that will f-f-fix it fine."
"Take it along, Mr. Smirk, and have it attended to immediately," directed the poet. "When I try it on again, if it's all right, I 'll pay you for the pair. How long will it take you?"