“Right? Cert’nly I’m right. Leather never lies. Not good leather. An’ poor leather’s a dead give-away. My museum of soles.” He waved a showman’s hand toward the rows of shoes suspended neatly in brackets of his own devising against the walls. “Look at them Congress gaiters. Would n’t you know they was a banker’s belongings? Robert Wanser, President of the Trust Company. Full and easy and comfortable and mebbe a little sly in the gait. But there’s weight in ’em. Don’t get in their way. There’s Rappelje’s next ’em; Professor Rappelje, of the University. Queer neighbors. Straight and thin and fine finished, his gear. Mebbe a little pinchy. But a man to swear by. And Bausch: them high-button calfs. He’s a buster. Busts his buttons off. One of them big, puffin’-up Germans. Always marching. Tramp-tramp-tramp: the goose-step. Nothin’ o’ that in that lot on the end. Judge Dana. See the ball of the soles? Worn down. Creeps, he does. Guess he can jump too, after he’s crept near enough. An’ that pair below, on the right. That’s a shuffler. Mr. Wymett. Owns The Guardian and runs it. Now here’s a mincer. Dainty an’ soft he goes an’ dainty an’ soft he lives: the Rev. Mr. Merserole, rector of our rich folks’ church. For all that, there’s stuff an’ weight in his shoes.” His hand hovered and touched a pair of elegantly made, low, laced Oxfords, of almost feminine delicacy. “Style there, eh? Know what they want, those shoes. Got to be jest so. Spick an’ span. They say Montrose Clark never has to pay to have ’em cleaned.” “Why is that?” asked Jeremy, responsive to the look of invitation in the old man’s eye. “Got so many boot-lickers around him,” chuckled the philosopher. “Kick you as soon as look at you, those would, for all they look so finicky.” “I’ll come in to see you when I need pointers about people,” said Jeremy, smiling. The Boot & Shoe Surgeon handed him the repaired golf-boots. “I’m an ignorant old man,” he said, “but I know folks’s feet and sometimes I can guess what path they’ll take. I’ve been talking pretty free to you, Mr. Robson, for a stranger. But I reckon you’re trustable, ’spite of what Nick Milliken says.” “I reckon I am, Doctor Wade,” returned Jeremy, and believed himself as he said it. “Yes: the old man likes to talk,” confessed Eli Wade; “an’ about people. Gossip, some call it. That’s a silly word. What’s history but gossip about folks that are dead? But, of course, a man like me has to be careful who he talks to, being in public life.” “Certainly,” acquiesced the amused Jeremy. “But I did n’t know you were in public life. What office do you hold?” “I’m on the Fenchester Public School Board,” said Eli Wade with simple but profound pride. CHAPTER V