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：
“Id shouldn’d ’ave greaked.” “It did， I’m afraid.”
“You goddem wed before dey found demselves？” “I don’t think so.”
At that he lowered his eyes， as if hunting for memory of those boots， and I felt sorry I had mentioned this grave thing.
“Zend dem back！” he said； “I will look at dem.”
A feeling of compassion for my creaking boots surged up in me， so well could I imagine the sorrowful long curiosity of regard which he would bend on them.
“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 thetwo 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！”
For his elder brother， I knew， had not character enough to reproach me， even dumbly.
And， to my relief， in the shop there did appear to be his elder brother， handling a piece of leather.
“Well， Mr. Gessler，” I said， “how are you？” He came close， and peered at me.
“I am breddy well，” he said slowly “but my elder brudder is dead.”
And I saw that it was indeed himself—but how aged and wan！ And never before had I heard him mention his brother. Much shocked； I murmured： “Oh！ I am sorry！”
“Yes，” he answered， “he was a good man， he made a good bood； but he is dead.” And he touched the top of his head， where the hair had suddenly gone as thin as it had been on that of his poor brother， to indicate， I suppose， the cause of death. “He could nod ged over losing de oder shop. Do you wand any hoods？” And he held up the leather in his hand： “Id’s a beaudiful biece.”
I ordered several pairs. It was very long before they came—but they were better than ever. One simply could not wear them out. And soon after that I went abroad.
It was over a year before I was again in London. And the first shop I went to was my old friend’s. I had left a man of sixty， I came back to one of seventy-five， pinched and worn and tremulous， who genuinely， this time， did not at first know me.
“Oh！ Mr. Gessler，” I said， sick at heart； “how splendid your boots are！ See， I’ve been wearing this pair nearly all the time I’ve been abroad； and they’re not half worn out， are they？”
He looked long at my boots—a pair of Russia leather， and his face seemed to regain steadiness. Putting his hand on my instep， he said：
