Heh? Minister wants his shoes? They aint done yet. Promised yisterday. So they was, but my old woman wasn’t well yisterday afternoon and I had to stay at home with her. When’ll he git ’em? To-morrow. Sure? (Testily.) I said to-morrow. (Comes back down grumbling.) Some people thinks ye kin do everything at onct. The minister kin write sermons in his slippers, cordin’ to my tell. Where are his shoes? (Rummages.) Plague take it. I’m gittin’ forgitfuller every day. People thinks a shoemaker ought to carry everything in his mind. Next thing they’ll be wantin’ me to sleep with their old shoes. (Finds shoes.) Humph! Easy to tell they was preacher’s shoes. He’s mighty keerful of ’em. Has to be on his salary, an’ people not a payin’ up prompt. They’ve been blacked an’ blacked till they aint much left but blackin’ an’ cracks. Not wuth mendin’ nohow, but I s’pose I’ll have to doctor ’em up somehow. They ought to be foxed but that’ud cost mor ’n they’re worth.
Throws shoes in pail of water with splash. Takes up another pair.
These are old Mrs. Green’s. Now jist see the patches! An’ she wants ’em gone over agin. Jacob’s coat aint a circumstance to her shoes. That woman is tighter ’n a swelled bung. Last time I patched them shoes it took half a day an’ I charged her fifty cents coz I knowed I couldn’t git seventy-five. She said it was an outrage and cut up like a drunken fiddler till I was ashamed of her. Said thirty-five cents was a big price an’ she wouldn’t pay a red cent more. The old skinflint! (Angrily.) I jist wont fool with them shoes any more. (Throws them aside.) I don’t care if she does own half the town. I wouldn’t be in her shoes for half the earth. I uster want to be rich, but sence I see how riches has affected old Mrs. Green I’m better satisfied to be poor. (Noise outside.) What’s all that racket?
Cobbler goes to door and looks out.
That’s the movin’ wagons. The landlord’s been sayin’ these fifteen year he’d pull down this old place and build. I got sorter used to his talk and paid no attention to the notice. (Feels in his pockets.) Where is that notice? I’m gittin’ more ’n more forgitful every day. (Sits on bench.) Thirty odd year in one place an’ then move! I hoped it wouldn’t come in my time. (Chin on hands.) I made old Judge Henry’s shoes here an’ I made Gen. Bridge’s boots here, the very pair he was killed in at Chickamaugy an’ I made Lincoln’s shoes here. They’re all dead long ago an’ I’m here yet. Thirty year in one place. It’s jist like movin’ an’ old tree. It’ll most likely dwindle an’ it takes more coddlin’ than a dozen young ones an’ then if it lives it’ll never do no great things. But there aint no use cryin’ over spilt milk. I’ll have to pack up.
Rises, gets big dry goods box from corner and commences to sort the old shoes.
I ’low half this old truck might as well be burned, but what a fuss there’d be if some of these trumpery old things were lost. Old Mrs. Green would—well, I’ll jist wrap hers up safe and sound. If they got injured I’d have to make her a new pair, nothin’ short of it, an’ then likely she’d want damages for the trouble I caused her. (Finishes wrapping Mrs. Green’s shoes and lays them up carefully on shelf. Picks up another pair.) Great Christopher! Here’s a pair of old Mrs. Jink’s shoes and I promised ’em to-day never thinkin’ of the movin’. There’ll be music if she don’t git ’em. She’s the only person in town I don’t dare to disappoint. Tried it once an’ it lasted me twenty year. Tongue! That woman could talk down a parrot house any day. She’s a buzz saw worked by ’lectricity. The old hyena! Why, that time she wanted to go away visitin’ her sister’s an’ her shoes wasn’t quite done—such a tongue lashin’ as I got. I don’t care much for people’s chinnin’ genally. Some I laugh at, an’ some I humor, but I stood like a stacher before her and dasn’t open my mouth. There must be sich things as special providences, fur old man Jinks is deaf as a post.
Throws some shoes into box. Takes up large pair and pauses. Looks intently at them.
Why, if them aint Col. Sawyer’s shoes. Might a known ’em by the size, biggest foot in the state I reckon. He never got any repairin’ done ’cause I had no other shoes in the shop big enough for his feet to change into. Canal boats we uster call ’em. Why, the colonel’s been gone west these ten year. An’ I’m mighty sorry the town lost him. Soul as big as his feet—his immortal soul I mean. (Laughs.) He did the town some good. Always startin’ some enterprise an’ keepin’ it a goin’, too. He didn’t set round till he took root like some people in this town. He was a customer. Two pairs of new shoes an’ one pair of boots a year at ten dollars a pair. An’ no patchin’, ’cause he always said life was too short to wait fur patches. An’ he never kicked either if I was a month or so late on promise. He was a gentleman an’ never tried to browbeat poor folks.