“They’re boots, anyhow,” said the voice.

“They are⁠—charity boots,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with his head on one side regarding them distastefully; “and which is the ugliest pair in the whole blessed universe, I’m darned if I know!”

“H’m,” said the voice.

“I’ve worn worse⁠—in fact, I’ve worn none. But none so owdacious ugly⁠—if you’ll allow the expression. I’ve been cadging boots⁠—in particular⁠—for days. Because I was sick of them . They’re sound enough, of course. But a gentleman on tramp sees such a thundering lot of his boots. And if you’ll believe me, I’ve raised nothing in the whole blessed country, try as I would, but them . Look at ’em! And a good country for boots, too, in a general way. But it’s just my promiscuous luck. I’ve got my boots in this country ten years or more. And then they treat you like this.”