beard fringed with shapeless beads of ice. Such figures, without exception, paused under a wooden boat that threatened the path from above a window where a lighted lamp kept the frost melting. They kicked the snow from their heels, and entered.
Mr. Laurel's shop was a winter club by day and night. He was a ruddy, solemn little cobbler, whose leather apron bulged over a comfortable stomach, and round whose ear coiled always a "waxed end." Inordinate smoker and debater, local authority on music, he shone in these long days when—as Bunty Gildersleeve expressed it—there was "nuthin' but sit by the fire and drink whiskey and tell lies." Whenever discussion drooped, some one called out, "Give us a toon, now, come." And Mr. Laurel, washing his hands with an extravagance of soap and drying them fastidiously on the shop towel, opened an ancient case in a corner, and sat down before his musical glasses. He waved circles of practice in the air, bent over, and, touching the clustered rims reverently, drew forth thin, vocal harmonies of surprising sweetness. The
