“But not adequate,” I said. “He is wise (a confirmatory nod from the brown-and-gold fairy) and brave (another nod) and unselfish (a third nod) and obstinate (two nods) and beautiful--” “Oh!” said the brown-and-gold fairy, with obvious disappointment. “--to us who know him, I mean.” She smiled up at me. “And his name is Smith.” “It is,” I averred. At this juncture Dead-Men's-Shoes, who had been fidgeting on his wagon seat, deemed it time to interfere in the interests of commerce. “Don't butt in, dominie,” he protested in an injured aside. “These mourners has to be handled with tac'. It takes a professional. You're spoilin' trade.” Herein he did me injustice. The brown-and-gold fairy threw the gate open and invited Dead-Men's-Shoes in to bargain. Highly advantageous bargaining it was, I judged from the ill-suppressed jubilance of my associate's face when he emerged some minutes later, tottering under a burden of assorted clothing, while she brought up the rear, carrying one pair of shoes. The rose was gone from her hair. “Remember,” she cautioned him, “the suits you may dispose of as you please, but the shoes are to go to the--the Little Red Doctor just as they are. Will you see that they do?” She appealed to me. “I'll take them myself,” I promised. “Will you? That's kind of you. But you mustn't tell him where they came from.” She looked up at me and I seemed to discern something wistful in her eyes. “You are a friend of Dr. Smith's?” “Yes. And you?” “I used to be,” said she indifferently. Dead-Men's-Shoes climbed into the wagon and lifted the lines. “Accept the assurances of my respec'ful sympathy,” he recited, “an' remember the address if there's anything further in my line. Wake up, Dolly Gray.” The brown-and-gold fairy floated out through the gate and came to my side. “Does he still limp?” she asked in a half whisper. “Imperceptibly,” I answered. “I don't _want_ him to limp,” she cried imperiously and was gone. Dolly Gray took us and the shoes of the deceased cousin on our way. The day's journey ended in front of the Little Red Doctor's office. The Little Red Doctor looked up from some sort of complicated mechanism which he was making for crippled Molly Rankin (who could never by any possibility pay him for it) and appeared astonished at the sight of the very elegant footwear which Dead-Men's-Shoes extended to him. “What for?” he asked. “I'm not buying second-hand shoes.” “Ask the dominie,” said Dead-Men's Shoes. “They're a present,” I explained. The Little Red Doctor looked both puzzled and suspicious. “They won't fit my queer foot,” he objected. “Try,” encouraged Dead-Men's-Shoes. The Little Red Doctor tried on the left boot. “Pretty good,” he said. He stood up to stamp his foot down. Then he bounded into the air like a springbok, and on alighting, tore off the shoe, saying something harsh and profane about practical jokers. “There's a pin in it,” he growled.