Next door to the saloon was a basement barber shop. From it at this instant there emerged a Bowery mission worker, an elderly gentleman of a benevolent aspect, his pink jowls newly scraped and his face powdered. As he climbed up the steps to the level of the sidewalk this gentleman bent over to refasten a loosened shoelace. Now, to the best of his knowledge and belief, the derelict never before had seen the missionary, but as the latter stooped, presenting before him an expanse of black coat tails, the misanthrope hauled off and dealt the gentle stranger a terrific kick. With a yell of astonishment and pain the clergyman landed ten feet away. “What did you mean by that?” he demanded, rubbing the seat of his trousers with both hands. “Why did you kick me?” “Oh,” said the ex-sandwich man, in tones of an uncontrollable annoyance, “you’re _always_ tying your shoestring!” § 46 The Custom of the Country The English have the credit for being a conservative race—a breed in which respect for traditions is so strong that they hesitate to change anything which has behind it the merits of antiquity and established comfort. The story which follows would tend to indicate that this trait really does persist in our Anglo-Saxon cousins. Through the fields between two villages in Sussex ran a footpath. It was not the quickest route for one going from one of the hamlets to the other, for it wandered about, but it had been traced originally by the horny, naked feet of Saxon serfs, and now was worn deep into the turf by the heels of countless generations, and everybody in the neighborhood used it, because everybody always had. A country gentleman lived midway between the towns. One day he heard a vicious bull was straying about the countryside, chasing pedestrians, frightening children and generally misbehaving himself. Seeking for variety from the monotony of his life, the gentleman went forth in the afternoon hoping to glimpse the bull. Once he heard him bellow, but he did not see him. He lingered afield until nearly dusk. He had reached a stile where a hedge crossed the footpath when he heard in the distance, through the thickening gloom, the patter of flying feet, mingled with the thud of heavy hoofs, a convulsive panting and the snorts of some large animal. Into sight came the local postman, an elderly person. He was legging along at top speed, his mail pouch bouncing on his hip, his whiskers neatly parted by the wind and blowing backward over his shoulders, and just behind him came the bull, lunging with his horns at the seat of the fugitive’s trousers. By half a length the fleeing man reached the hedge ahead of his pursuer. He flung himself headlong over the stile and in its protection lay breathless, while the bull, bellowing his disappointment, strolled off to seek an easier victim. The spectator aided the quivering postman to his feet. “He almost had you to-night, Fletcher,” said the gentleman, sympathetically.