Taught by adversity, Septimus Hardon had learned to contend with the dilapidations in his clothes,--at times quite ingeniously,--but, like far better men, he had not been able to control his boots. Custom has so much to do with matters of dress, that though shabbiness will pass unnoticed in the throng, any departure from the ordinary laws will draw as much attention to the offender as if he were a visitor from some foreign clime. Sandal-shoon were of course once the correct thing for promenading the crust of the earth; but who now, unless he were an extreme Ritualist, would think of traversing our muddy streets with bare feet strapped to a sole, and great-toes working in a most obtrusive manner? Certainly not a man of Septimus Hardon's retiring disposition, though, had he felt so disposed, he could not have done so in the present instance, since his boots almost lacked soles. Their decay had been so rapid, that scarcely anything remained but the uppers. He had even taken to wearing his wife's goloshes, until the policeman became more attentive to his quiet footfall than was agreeable. But there is a stretch beyond which even the elasticity of indiarubber will not extend; and now, after putting up with much hard usage, the goloshes had succumbed, and, suffering under a complete reverse of circumstances, the indiarubber was itself completely rubbed out. As before said, there are many little contrivances for bettering worn costume; but somehow or another a boot bothers the cleverest. String is a wonderful adjunct to garments generally, often acting as a substitute for buttons or braces; in fact, for a man wrecked on a desert island, there would not be the slightest cause for despair so long as he had string; but even it falls powerless before boots; glue is useless from the damp; while as to paste, it is no better than sealing-wax or grim. Taken altogether, boots are a great nuisance to a poor man; and when they have arrived at such a pitch that they are not worth mending, the best plan to adopt is not to throw them away, or offer them up as an odorous sacrifice to the goddess of poverty upon your household fire, watching their life-like contortions as the leather twists and turns in the hot blaze, but to do as Septimus Hardon did, with many a sigh, as though they had been old friends--sell them.