“Laugh at me if you like. You don’t laugh at folks that believes in palmistry. What’s a man’s palm to read! He can change every line in it with a hoe, or an awl, or a golf-stick. But his shoes! Ah! As a man walks, so he is. An’ his shoes tell the tale. Take these, young man.” The Boot & Shoe Surgeon laid an affectionate hand upon Miss Marcia Ames’ boots. “Study ’em. They’ll repay you. There’s courage an’ clean pride an’ a warm heart that travels the path she walks. Yes; an’ a touch of vanity--Why not? An’ a temper of their own, them boots. Hot an’ quick an’ generous. You’ve got to travel some to keep pace with them boots. I dunno when I’ve had a pair to match ’em. Here’s another pair ’ll go far.” He lifted them into view. “Hand-made, stout-made, and serviceable. They ’re climbers, they are! They ’ll reach the high places--if they don’t slip.” “Who owns them?” “The Honorable Martin Embree.” “A faker,” grunted the white-haired figure. “A climber. A hustler. A fighter. No faker. Yet--they may slip,” said the diagnostician, studying the sole of the left boot. “They _may_ slip. Gave me some advice, when he saw my winder. ‘Leave the flag, but take out the motter,’ s’ he. ‘There’s no sense in that “It stands alone.” The country is big enough an’ broad enough for all nationalities, an’ welcome,’ s’ he.’” “Sensible enough,” growled the figure in the chair. “But he’s a faker. A half-heart. All for the people in words. But put it up to him in deeds--he ain’t there.” “He’s a Socialist,” explained the Boot & Shoe Surgeon, pointing his awl at the chair. “Nicholas Milliken. Make you acquainted. What did you say your name was?” “Jeremy Robson,” said its owner, who had n’t yet said anything of the sort. The figure in the chair for the first time honored him with its attention. “On The Record?” he asked. “Yes.” “Reporter?” “Yes.” “Then you’ve got the soul of a louse.” “Soft words, Nick,” prescribed Eli Wade. “Soft words? Hard facts! The soul of a louse!” “Who the devil are you?” demanded Jeremy. “A Socialist,” repeated the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. “Don’t mind him.” Milliken rose and stood before the subject of his com-temptuous phrase; long, lean, dry, and bitter. “Me?” said he. “I’m a man. I’m no hired pen. I write for The Free-Thinker, when I write.” “Rest of the time he sets type on The Record,” explained Wade. “That’s it. Many a time I’ve run the stick over your stuff.” “It seems to have made an unfavorable impression on you,” remarked Jeremy. “Oh, you can write.” The other flung the concession to him condescendingly. “I grant you that. What good does that do you? You’ve got to trim your facts to your owner’s orders, have n’t you?” “Not facts,” denied the reporter with some heat. “Facts are facts. I don’t trim them for anybody.” “Nobody trims them after they’re written, either, I suppose.” The tone was not to Jeremy’s liking. “The copy-desk--” he began.