They looked rather little men, though not at all of fairy-size. The most remarkable thing about them was, that at any given moment they were all doing precisely the same thing, as if they had been a piece of machinery. When one drew the threads in stitching, they all did the same. If Colin saw one wax his thread, and looked up, he saw that they were all waxing their thread. If one took to hammering on his lapstone, they did not follow his example, but all together with him they caught up their lapstones and fell to hammering away, as if nothing but hammering could ever be demanded of them. And when he came to look at them more closely, he saw that every one was blind of an eye, and had a nose turned up like an awl. Every one of them, however, looked different from the rest, notwithstanding a very close resemblance in their features.
The moment they caught sight of him, they rose as one man, pointed their awls at him, and advanced towards him like a closing bush of aloes, glittering with spikes.
“Fine upper-leathers,” said one and all, with a variety of accordant grimaces.
“Top of his head—good paste-bowl,” was the next general remark.
“Coarse hair—good ends,” followed.
“Sinews—good thread.”
“Bones and blood—good paste for seven-leaguers.”
“Ears—good loops to pull ’em on with. Pair short now.”
“Soles—same for queen’s slippers.”
And so on they went, portioning out his body in the most irreverent fashion for the uses of their trade, till having come to his teeth, and said—