Thus they were all busy together when we entered on this winter morning, carrying Angel's heelless boot, wrapped in a newspaper.
"Good-morning, Mr. Martindale," said Angel, above the din, "you see I've got another heel off, so I'm wearing my Sunday boots, and Mrs. Handsomebody says it shouldn't be above sixpence, please."
The cobbler ceased his tapping, and all the birds stopped to listen:
"Good-morning, little masters," he said, in his soft voice. "What wild things your feet are to be sure. Try as I will, I cannot tame them. You might as well try to keep three wild ponies shod." He undid the parcel and turned the boot over in his hands. "Sixpence, did she say? Nay, tell her a shilling, for the sole needs stitching as well."
"Oh, but you must keep that for another day," said Angel, "so we can come again."
"How she tries to keep you down," said the cobbler. "How old are you now?"
I replied to this. "Angel's ten, and I'm nine, and The Seraph's six."
"Just the brave age for the woods. I wish I had my old van again, and could take you on the road with me. You'd learn something of forest ways in no time. Shall you wait for this?"
Wait for it? Rather. We established our-
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