At last my boots were finished, and I went into them right and left; at
least, I tried so to do.

With every nerve flashing lightning, I pulled and tugged most
thrillingly, but in vain.

"There's no putting my foot in it," says I.

"Give one more try," says he.

Although almost tried out, I generously gave one more. I placed the
bootmaker's awl in one strap, and his last-hook in the other, and with
"two roses" mantling my cheeks, postured for the contest.

I tried the heeling process, and earnestly endeavored to toe the mark;
but to successfully start the thing on foot was a bootless effort.

Then I slumberously gravitated, and dreamed thus:--

Old "LEATHERBRAINS" in SATAN'S livery, producing a hammer from a
carpet-bag (he was a carpet-bagger), proceeded to shape my feet, and
fill them with shoe-pegs.

My nap was ruffled, and not to be continued under those circumstances,
so I wisely concluded it.

"They're on!" says the bootmaker.

And a tight on it was, excruciatingly so.