When one grew old and wild and ran up bills, one somehow never ran them up with Gessler Brothers.  It would not have seemed becoming to go in there and stretch out one’s foot to that blue iron-spectacled glance, owing him for more than—­say—­two pairs, just the comfortable reassurance that one was still his client.

For it was not possible to go to him very often—­his boots lasted terribly, having something beyond the temporary—­some, as it were, essence of boot stitched into them.

One went in, not as into most shops, in the mood of:  “Please serve me, and let me go!” but restfully, as one enters a church; and, sitting on the single wooden chair, waited—­for there was never anybody there.  Soon, over the top edge of that sort of well—­rather dark, and smelling soothingly of leather—­which formed the shop, there would be seen his face, or that of his elder brother, peering down.  A guttural sound, and the tip-tap of bast slippers beating the narrow wooden stairs, and he would stand before one without coat, a little bent, in leather apron, with sleeves turned back, blinking—­as if awakened from some dream of boots, or like an owl surprised in daylight and annoyed at this interruption.

And I would say:  “How do you do, Mr. Gessler?  Could you make me a pair of Russia leather boots?”

Without a word he would leave me, retiring whence he came, or into the other portion of the shop, and I would, continue to rest in the wooden chair, inhaling the incense of his trade.  Soon he would come back, holding in his thin, veined hand a piece of gold-brown leather.  With eyes fixed on it, he would remark:  “What a beaudiful biece!” When I, too, had admired it, he would speak again.  “When do you wand dem?” And I would answer:  “Oh!  As soon as you conveniently can.”  And he would say:  “To-morrow fordnighd?” Or if he were his elder brother:  “I will ask my brudder!”

Then I would murmur:  “Thank you!  Good-morning, Mr. Gessler.”  “Goot-morning!” he would reply, still looking at the leather in his hand.  And as I moved to the door, I would hear the tip-tap of his bast slippers restoring him, up the stairs, to his dream of boots.  But if it were some new kind of foot-gear that he had not yet made me, then indeed he would observe ceremony—­divesting me of my boot and holding it long in his hand, looking at it with eyes at once critical and loving, as if recalling the glow with which he had created it, and rebuking the way in which one had disorganized this masterpiece.  Then, placing my foot on a piece of paper, he would two or three times tickle the outer edges with a pencil and pass his nervous fingers over my toes, feeling himself into the heart of my requirements.

I cannot forget that day on which I had occasion to say to him; “Mr. Gessler, that last pair of town walking-boots creaked, you know.”

He looked at me for a time without replying, as if expecting me to withdraw or qualify the statement, then said: