bent over his work, and laughed, his old high-keyed, dry-leather laugh. It was no small triumph, if Texas had known it, to pull a laugh out of cynical old Uncle Boley. He didn't say a word more until he had the last tack driven, the newness of the repaired heels duly disguised by blacking, after the ancient custom of his craft. Then he handed the shoes over to their owner, shook his head, took the waxed-end out of his mouth.
"No, I'll bet a button you never did!" said he, and laughed again, with such deep gusto it made him cough.
Texas put on his shoes, stood to try them, stamped this foot and that, thrust his hand into his pocket, and inquired how much it was.
"Dollar," said Uncle Boley, turning his head as if ashamed of mentioning such a trifle.
Texas produced it, but Uncle Boley pretended to be absorbed in something transpiring in the street. Texas put it on the bench before him, apology in his movement, and started for the door.
"How much does that leave you?" Uncle Boley asked.
"Sufficient for immediate needs, sir, thank you."
"Yes, and I'll bet you couldn't match it if your neck depended on it!"
Which was true, and Uncle Boley knew it was
