"Now, when did you expect a man to get so rich as to fling away his property? Doesn't the Scripture say, 'Waste not, for to-morrow you may die?' Grab a-hold of her, Joe, and patch her up. All you've got to do is to put leather where there ain't none." "Yes, all I've got to do is to build a boot in the air." "Well, but ain't that your business, hah?" "Yes, if I'm paid for it; but you haven't paid for the last pair of shoes I half-soled. And you said you'd pay on the following Wednesday." "Did I say that? But I didn't tell you pointedly. You can always count on me when I tell you pointedly. A man that won't pay when he tells you pointedly is a liar. Whose boots are them right there--them old ones? They'd just about fit my son-in-law. Yes, Sir; and he can put 'em on and come up to town and enjoy himself. What will you take for 'em, Joe?" "Two dollars, Bugg." "Cheap enough, and I'll take 'em. Pass 'em over." "But when will you pay for them?" "Let me see. I'll pay for 'em Thursday." "Pointedly?" the shoemaker inquired, with a wink at me. "Well, now, if it's to be pointedly I'd better make it Thursday week. How does that hit you?" "Take them along, but I'll never get the money." He tumbled forward from his seat, grabbed up the boots, and, holding them close to his bosom, he said: "Joe, don't--don't insult me by sayin' that you'll never get your money. It's a sad thing to give your word pointedly and I've give you mine." He took out a string, tied the boots together at the straps and threw them across his shoulder. Then he sat down. "Yes, Sir," he said, "when a man gives me his word pointedly and fails to keep it, I put him down in my liar book. Say, Mister, I hear 'em say you are goin' to give your show in a house. Don't see how you can give much of a show unless you've got room to gallop around in, but I reckon you'll do the best you can. Joe, let me take a few of them books along with me," he added, nodding toward the shelf. And the shoemaker's hand, with a movement as quick as the frisk of a squirrel's tail, flew upon the bench at his side and rattled the tools, as if grabbing for a hammer to throw at the head of the outrageous customer. His face was hard and his eyes were set with anger, and if for a moment there was not murder in his heart, he gave me a bit of fine acting. But his epileptic resentment passed away with a jerk, and looking up at the dumfounded Peters, he said, "Bugg, I guess you'd better go." "Why, what's the matter, Joe?" "Guess you'd better go. I can stand to be robbed of leather, but when you try to extend your theft to the things that make me superior to you ignorant yaps, I feel like mashing your head." "Your driftwood is comin' so swift that I can't ketch it, Joe." "He means that you must not touch his books," I put in.