“Zome boods,” he said slowly, “are bad from birdt.  If I can do noding wid dem, I dake dem off your bill.”

Once (once only) I went absent-mindedly into his shop in a pair of boots bought in an emergency at some large firm’s.  He took my order without showing me any leather, and I could feel his eyes penetrating the inferior integument of my foot.  At last he said: 

“Dose are nod my boods.”

The tone was not one of anger, nor of sorrow, not even of contempt, but there was in it something quiet that froze the blood.  He put his hand down and pressed a finger on the place where the left boot, endeavouring to be fashionable, was not quite comfortable.

“Id ’urds you dere,”, he said.  “Dose big virms ’ave no self-respect.  Drash!” And then, as if something had given way within him, he spoke long and bitterly.  It was the only time I ever heard him discuss the conditions and hardships of his trade.

“Dey get id all,” he said, “dey get id by adverdisement, nod by work.  Dey dake it away from us, who lofe our boods.  Id gomes to this—­bresently I haf no work.  Every year id gets less you will see.”  And looking at his lined face I saw things I had never noticed before, bitter things and bitter struggle—­and what a lot of grey hairs there seemed suddenly in his red beard!

As best I could, I explained the circumstances of the purchase of those ill-omened boots.  But his face and voice made so deep impression that during the next few minutes I ordered many pairs.  Nemesis fell!  They lasted more terribly than ever.  And I was not able conscientiously to go to him for nearly two years.

When at last I went I was surprised to find that outside one of the two little windows of his shop another name was painted, also that of a bootmaker-making, of course, for the Royal Family.  The old familiar boots, no longer in dignified isolation, were huddled in the single window.  Inside, the now contracted well of the one little shop was more scented and darker than ever.  And it was longer than usual, too, before a face peered down, and the tip-tap of the bast slippers began.  At last he stood before me, and, gazing through those rusty iron spectacles, said: 

“Mr.-----, isn’d it?”

“Ah!  Mr. Gessler,” I stammered, “but your boots are really too good, you know!  See, these are quite decent still!” And I stretched out to him my foot.  He looked at it.

“Yes,” he said, “beople do nod wand good hoods, id seems.”

To get away from his reproachful eyes and voice I hastily remarked:  “What have you done to your shop?”

He answered quietly:  “Id was too exbensif.  Do you wand some boods?”

I ordered three pairs, though I had only wanted two, and quickly left.  I had, I do not know quite what feeling of being part, in his mind, of a conspiracy against him; or not perhaps so much against him as against his idea of boot.  One does not, I suppose, care to feel like that; for it was again many months before my next visit to his shop, paid, I remember, with the feeling:  “Oh! well, I can’t leave the old boy—­so here goes!  Perhaps it’ll be his elder brother!”