of them
always meant a visit to the cobbler to buy new ones. They were
comparatively easy to break, or to tie in knots that even Mary Ellen's
strong fingers could not undo. Then there were tongues. One could always
dislocate a tongue. At any rate, the boots of one of the three were always
needing attention.

"Bless me!" our governess would exclaim, wrathfully, "Another heel off! One
would think you did it purposely. And boots such a price! Just think of
your poor father in South America, working day in and day out to provide
you with boots, which you treat with no more consideration than if they
were horseshoes--well, to the cobbler's then--and tell him to mind his
charges. It should cost no more than sixpence."

The cobbler lived in the tiniest of a group of tiny houses that huddled
together, in a panicky fashion, in a narrow street behind Mrs.
Handsomebody's house. From an upper window we could look down on their
roofs, where the plump, Cathedral pigeons used to congregate to gossip and
sun themselves.

You went down three stone steps into the cobbler's shop. There he always
sat at work by his bench, tapping away at the sole of a shoe, or stitching
leather with his strange needle. His hands fascinated us by their coat of
smooth oily dirt. Never cleaner, never dirtier, always the same useful,
glove-like covering. Did he go to bed with them so? How jolly! we thought.
His face, too, was of extraordinary interest. It was so thin that the sharp
bones could be seen beneath the dusky skin, and he would twitch his
nostrils at the breeze that came in his open window, for all the world like
an eager brown hare. His hair curled so tightly over his head that one knew
he could never pull a comb through it, and we were sure he was far too
sensible to try.

Mrs. Handsomebody said he was half gypsy, and not to be encouraged. Mary
Ellen said, God help him with that wife of his.

He bred canaries.

All about the low window their wooden cages hung. Even from the darkest
corners of the shop bursts of song leaped like little flames and yellow
breasts bloomed like daffodils. When the cobbler tapped a shoe with his
hammer, they sang loudest, making a wild and joyous din.

Thus they were all busy together when we entered on this winter morning,
carrying Angel's heelless boot, wrapped in a newspaper.

"Good-morning, Mr. Martindale," said Angel, above the din, "you see I've
got another heel off, so I'm wearing my Sunday boots, and Mr