Paradis has stooped to look at the boots more closely, and suddenly
he puts his hand out towards them. "Drop it, gran'ma; I'll spruce up
your lass's trotter-cases for you in three secs."
The old woman lodges an objection by shaking her head and her
shoulders. But Paradis takes the boots with authority, while the
grandmother, paralyzed by her weakness, argues the question and
opposes us with shadowy protest.
Paradis has taken a boot in each hand; he holds them gingerly and
looks at them for a moment, and you would even say that he was
squeezing them a little.
"Aren't they small!" he says in a voice which is not what we hear in
the usual way.
He has secured the brushes as well, and sets himself to wielding
them with zealous carefulness. I notice that he is smiling, with his
eyes fixed on his work.
Then, when the mud has gone from the boots, he takes some polish on
the end of the double-pointed brush and caresses them with it
intently.
They are dainty boots--quite those of a stylish young lady; rows of
little buttons shine on them.
"Not a single button missing," he whispers to me, and there is pride
in his tone.
He is no longer sleepy; he yawns no more. On the contrary, his lips
are tightly closed; a gleam of youth and spring-time lights up his
face; and he who was on the point of going to sleep seems just to
have woke up.
And where the polish has bestowed a beautiful black his fingers move
over the body of the boot, which opens widely in the upper part and
betrays--ever such a little--the lower curves of the leg.
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