"A good, strong shoe I'm not hard to suit," said the customer, a gray-haired and well-dressed business man.
"You're going to wear them—not me, mister," said Paul, yawning. He rose slowly from the bench at the back of the little shop, and came forward. He was a tall and skinny youth of about twenty.
"Sit down, will you?"
The customer sat down, thrust out his foot, and glanced at the clerk. Manley had walked away toward the shelves. The customer grunted, pulled a foot-rest to him, and began to unlace his shoe.
"I don't want a tan shoe," he said a moment later.
"I'm no mind-reader, mister," said Paul. He slapped the rejected shoe back into the box, and pulled out another pair.
"I don't want a vici kid," said the customer.
"That's the style nowadays."
"I don't care. I don't want it!"
"Well, try it on, can't you?" grumbled Paul. "There, how does it feel?"