But the cloak has disappeared, and the person inside it. His penance doubtless, is at an end—his humble vow fulfilled. He is gone: but, how strange! he has left his boots behind him. There they stand, in the middle of the pavement, bolt upright—one a Blucher, its companion a Wellington—as if they had risen out of the coal-cellar over night, like a couple of mushrooms. A phantom policeman attempts to take them up, but they are riveted to the spot. But, see! the poor exile comes this way: slippers are on his feet. He claims his boots. "Take them," says the man of law, bound in blue, and lettered B 32. No! They will not stir. He pulls them with a pair of boot-hooks, but if there were a Woman's Obstinacy in each sole, they could not maintain their ground more stoutly.
A pickaxe is brought. The boots are pulled up at length, but in company with the flag-stone. They are carried on the latter, as on a tray, before the magistrate. Their disconsolate owner follows them in his slippers. He unfolds his simple unadorned tale of woe. First he identifies the boots. The name of "Marquis de Carambole" appears inside each. Next he states he had been giving a lesson in French for sixpence to a family in the Lane of Leather. On his way home he stopped to admire some pies arrayed most temptingly in a sumptuous window. He tarried longer than he intended, but the luxury of the sight beguiled away the unconscious moments. He felt his feet getting very warm, but he thought it was only the grateful steam of the shop. He still looked on, turning over the sixpence alternately in his mind and in his pocket, whether he should spend it, or keep it to have his hair curled. At last he resolved on the rash purchase. He attempted to move, but his right foot was fastened to the pavement, and his left foot too; he was motionless; he was literally screwed—he had grown to the ground. He was riveted to the spot, not only in admiration, but in positive reality. For four interminable hours he endured worse than the torture of Tantalus, for eel pies were not known in the dark ages of Pluto. A feast was before him which he could not touch. Twelve o'clock at last put a friendly termination to his sufferings: the shop closed. He was left in the streets of London all by himself. He felt cold. His feet were benumbed, but he could not do anything to keep them warm. Stamping was out of the question, for he could not even lift them. A policeman told him once to "move on," but unfortunately he came like a shadow, and so departed. He thought of his landlord, of his tailor, of his washerwoman, of everything that was dear to him. A tear washed his cheek. He trembled like a creditor. He did not like to shout for aid, his position was so very ridiculous. At last necessity, the coldest he ever experienced, conquered his vanity. He cut his straps, and ran away like a second Napoleon, leaving Wellington and Blucher masters of the field. Having finished, the poor Orphan of France demands, in a voice of tears, that his boots may be restored to him.
THE APPROACH OF BLUCHER.—INTREPID ADVANCE OF THE FIRST FOOT.
"Certainly," says the urbane magistrate; "but you must first pay for the damage you have done to the pavement."
The poor Frenchman pleads that it is not his fault; but his plea is as bootless as himself.
A policeman, with the bump of science, craves leave to explain the mystery.
Leave is given to him; and, clearing his throat, he speaks thus:—"I think I can tell, sir, what is the mystery at the bottom of all this. It is Gutta Percha. This Gutta Percha, sir, is a new material of a waterproof substance; at first soluble, which afterwards hardens, and resists the action of water. It is used largely for boots. It is not proof, however, against heat. The consequence is that when it is exposed to a great warmth it becomes adhesive, and very tenacious of the footing it occupies. There is an instance of a cook whose Irish cousin was warming his feet at the fire; he had on soles made of Gutta Percha. His boots adhered to the hobs, and there he stuck in the kitchen for a fortnight till a frost came. It was called Hobbes' 'Essay on the Understanding.'"