I had given those boots up, when one evening they came. Opening the parcel, I set the four pairs out in a row. Then one by one I tried them on. There was no doubt about it. In shape and fit, in finish and quality of leather, they were the best he had ever made me. And in the mouth of one of the Town walking-boots I found his bill. The amount was the same as usual, but it gave me quite a shock. He had never before sent it in till quarter day. I flew down-stairs, and wrote a cheque, and posted it at once with my own hand. A week later, passing the little street, I thought I would go in and tell him how splendidly the new boots fitted. But when I came to where his shop had been, his name was gone. Still there, in the window, were the slim pumps, the patent leathers with cloth tops, the sooty riding boots. I went in, very much disturbed. In the two little shops--again made into one--was a young man with an English face. “Mr. Gessler in?” I said. He gave me a strange, ingratiating look. “No, sir,” he said, “no. But we can attend to anything with pleasure. We’ve taken the shop over. You’ve seen our name, no doubt, next door. We make for some very good people.” “Yes, yes,” I said: “but Mr. Gessler?” “Oh!” he answered; “dead.” “Dead! But I only received these boots from him last Wednesday week.” “Ah!” he said; “a shockin’ go. Poor old man starved ’imself.” “Good God!” “Slow starvation, the doctor called it! You see he went to work in such a way! Would keep the shop on; wouldn’t have a soul touch his boots except himself. When he got an order, it took him such a time. People won’t wait. He lost everybody. And there he’d sit, goin’ on and on--I will say that for him--not a man in London made a better boot! But look at the competition! He never advertised! Would ’ave the best leather, too, and do it all ’imself. Well, there it is. What could you expect with his ideas?” “But starvation----!” “That may be a bit flowery, as the sayin’ is--but I know myself he was sittin’ over his boots day and night, to the very last. You see I used to watch him. Never gave ’imself time to eat; never had a penny in the house. All went in rent and leather. How he lived so long I don’t know. He regular let his fire go out. He was a character. But he made good boots.” “Yes,” I said, “he made good boots.” And I turned and went out quickly, for I did not want that youth to know that I could hardly see. John Galsworthy, _The Inn of Tranquillity_. By permission of Charles Schribner’s Sons, the authorized publishers. SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SKETCHES The editors have found these additional selections useful in teaching the writing of sketches: Audoux, Marguerite. _The Queen’s Barge; Foals._ _Everybody’s Magazine_, August 1912, Vol. 27. Belloc, Hilaire. _The Path to Rome._ Longmans Green & Company.