"The time has now come," said Squire Woodcock. "You must start this
morning for Paris. Take off your shoes."

"Am I to steal from here to Paris on my stocking-feet?" said Israel,
whose late easy good living at White Waltham had not failed to bring out
the good-natured and mirthful part of him, even as his prior experiences
had produced, for the most part, something like a contrary result.

"Oh, no," smiled Horne Tooke, who always lived well, "we have
seven-league-boots for you. Don't you remember my measuring you?"

Hereupon going to the closet, the Squire brought out a pair of new
boots. They were fitted with false heels. Unscrewing these, the Squire
showed Israel the papers concealed beneath. They were of a fine tissuey
fibre, and contained much writing in a very small compass. The boots, it
need hardly be said, had been particularly made for the occasion.

"Walk across the room with them," said the Squire, when Israel had
pulled them on.

"He'll surely be discovered," smiled Horne Tooke. "Hark how he creaks."

"Come, come, it's too serious a matter for joking," said the Squire.
"Now, my fine fellow, be cautious, be sober, be vigilant, and above all
things be speedy."

Being furnished now with all requisite directions, and a supply of
money, Israel, taking leave of Mr. Tooke and Mr. Bridges, was secretly
conducted down stairs by the Squire, and in five minutes' time was on