“Yessum. I observed that the Grim Reaper had visited the premises,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes, who prides himself upon a stock of correct, elegant, and felicitous mortuary phrases. “May I proffer my humble condolences?” He removed the silk hat with an official and solemn flourish. “Are you the bereaved, mum?” “The what?” “The relic of the late lamented?” “No; only a cousin, but my father and I are Mr. Bennington's nearest relatives. What is it you wish?” “In that case,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes, with evident relief, “an' beggin' your pardon for intrudin' on your nach'ral grief an' distress, we might trade.” He coughed austerely. “About clothes now,” he suggested. “Clothes? What clothes?” said the fairy. “The deceased's. Or shoes, maybe? Or even hats.” “What on earth do you mean, you extraordinary person?” “I mean fair,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes firmly. “I'm here to buy the deceased's garments. You see, lady, I read all the death notices in the N'York papers, an' when I've got ten or a dozen good prospects in one locality I hitch up Dolly Gray an' make my rounds. An' though you ain't on my list, I won't count that against you when we come to dicker.” “But we don't want to sell Cousin Ben's clothes,” said the fairy in bewilderment. “Dont-cha!” Dead-Men's Shoes took on a persuasively argumentative air. “Listen, lady. Wotcha goin' to do with them garments?” “I hadn't thought about it.” “Was the late lamented a charitable gent? Good to the poor and that sort of thing?” “Very.” “There you are, then!” said he triumphantly. “Sell me the garments for a lot o' money. I'm soft on swell garments. Take the cash an' give it to charity. Le's begin with shoes. How many pair of shoes woild you say the untimely victim had?” Mirth quivered at the corners of the fairy's soft lips, “He wasn't an untimely victim. He was seventy-six years old and he had gout so dreadfully that he had to have one shoe made much longer than the other.” My companion's face fell, but immediately brightened with hope. “Which foot?” She considered. “The left.” “If they was right in size an' price,” he mused, “they might do for the Little Red Doctor.” The brown-and-gold fairy's eyes widened. “For whom?” she asked. “The Little Red Doctor.” “Why do you call him that?” “Because he's little an' red-headed an' the smartest doctor in N'York. An' if your loved-an'-lost one had had him, he'd be alive to-day,” he added with profound conviction. “Where does he live?” “Down in Our Square--No. 11, on the East Side; office hours nine to one. If you was any ways ailin' you couldn't do better'n to call.” “And there is something the matter with his left foot?” she pursued, ignoring this well-meant advice. “What?” “It's dummed hard to fit,” replied Dead-Men's-Shoes disconsolately. “I can tell you,” I interjected. “He injured it while swimming.” “Oh!” said the brown-and-gold fairy. “And--and this gentleman's description of him is accurate?”