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Updated: July 5, 2025
The quartermaster hesitates for a moment; but he is a resourceful man and has been through this many times before. We all need boots, quite right! But the question is, Who need them most? Undoubtedly those whose feet are most in evidence through worn soles and tattered uppers.
One dusky tatterdemalion wore a pair of boots from which he had removed the soles, his bare, spur-clad feet projecting from beneath the uppers.
Not long ago, having come through upon the uppers of my shoes, I wrapped the pair in a bit of newspaper and went around the corner into Sixth Avenue to find a cobbler. This is not difficult, for there are at least three cobblers to the block, all of them in basements four or five steps below the sidewalk.
The door looked cold and as if it had nothing to do with him; and there was no door-plate. He went slowly down the stairs and asked in the greengrocer's cellar below whether a woman who sewed uppers did not live on the second floor to the left. She had been forsaken by her husband and had two children three, he corrected himself humbly; What had become of them?
But the worst of all were the dreadful hobnailed boots: the leather of the uppers of these was an eighth of an inch thick, and very stiff. Across the fore part of the boot this hard leather had warped into ridges and valleys, which chafed his feet, and made them bleed. The soles were five-eighths of an inch thick, covered with hobnails, and were as hard and inflexible and almost as heavy as iron.
"That's the trouble with you Middles and Uppers, you don't know how it is to be a Lower and " Joe snapped suddenly, "I was born a Mid-Lower myself, Max. Don't give me that nonsense." Max gaped at him, utterly unbelieving. Joe's irritation fell away. He held out his glass. "Get us a couple of more drinks, Max, and I'll tell you a story."
"Of course," he said, as if endeavoring to explain this to himself, "you hardly knew her, I suppose. Only met once since you were kids and all that sort of thing. But I'm a pal of hers and I'm dashed upset by the whole business, I can tell you. It worries me, I mean to say. Poor girl, you know, landed on her uppers in a strange country. Well, I mean, it worries me.
"You know, Foster," said Gordon one Saturday evening after a more than usually dreary performance, "these uppers are getting about the ruddy limit." "Have you taken all this time to find that out?" growled Foster. "I used to like footer once. Last year we had a good time on those Colts games. Of course the old buffalo lost his hair a good deal, but the games were level at any rate.
"Maybe you'll be a member of the firm some day," added Sam with a smile. "I don't know about that. I'm willing to work, and the traveling suits me first-rate. They pay me a good salary, too thirty dollars per week and all expenses." "Good enough!" cried Dick. "I came to see you fellows," went on Dan Baxter in a lower voice. "I haven't forgotten what you did for me when I was on my uppers.
She sewed uppers and had a couple of apprentices to help her, and she was really doing pretty well. She did not associate with any one, not even with her relatives, for she never left her children. Druk-Valde had to go to the wall every evening; the most insignificant detail was of the greatest importance.
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