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"It's beca'se the Lord's bent on smitin' sech cussedness with a broad hand," said a long-faced deacon, who had come in to half-sole his own shoes with the shoemaker's tools, and sat soaking his bits of leather in a tub of dingy water. "I mought take yore view of it ef the reward was bestowed in a different quarter," Fred said, grimly. "But Alf don't go to meetin' any oftener'n I do.
Home people. The kind who can afford to wear dowdy hats and who have lived in the same house for thirty years." "Nome's mother was born in the house they live in." "Substantial people, who half-sole their shoes and endow colleges. Taxpayers. Policyholders. Church members. Oh, Marcia, those are the safe people!" "There's a Grosbeck memorial window in the Rock Church."
"Are you able to fight me?" "I'm able to thry it, anyhow, an' willin too." "Do you say you're able to fight me?" "I'll bring the boy home whether or not." "Thady's not your match, Jack Ratigan," said another boy. "Why don't you challenge your match?" "If you say a word, I'll half-sole your eye. Let him say whether he's able to fight me like a man or not. That's the chat." "Half-sole my eye!
Oh, that's a young artist; young Englishman, named Tracy; very promising favorite pupil of Hans Christian Andersen or one of the other old masters Andersen I'm pretty sure it is; he's going to half-sole some of our old Italian masterpieces. Been talking to him?" "Well, only a word. I stumbled right in on him without expecting anybody was there.
Thin here I am, an' why don't you do it. You're crowin' over a boy that you're bigger than. I'll fight you for Thady. Now half-sole my eye if you dar! Eh? Here's my eye, now! Arrah, be the holy man, I'd Don't we know the white hen's in you. Didn't Barny Murtagh cow you at the black-pool, on Thursday last, whin we wor bathin'?" "Come, Ratigan," said Thady, "peel an' turn out.
There sat my Wandering Jew on his shoemaker's bench, trimming a half-sole. He was drabbled with dew, grass-stained, unkempt, and miserable; and on his face was still the unexplained wretchedness, the problematic sorrow, the esoteric woe, that had been written there by nothing less, it seemed, than the stylus of the centuries. Judge Hoover inquired kindly concerning his shoes.
"It's a toothpick and a tater-peeler put together," said Siwash, when it came back to his hand. The young fellow with the black, sleek hair, who kept his gun on, reached for it, bent over it in the light, examining it with interest. "You can trim your toenails with it and half-sole your boots," he said.
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