kit of carpenter's tools was on the floor, and one wall was lined with
box-like compartments made of new wood, each with its label in neat
lettering indicating the articles contained therein. "Shoes?" he
repeated, as he ran his eye down the labels and suddenly opened a drawer.
"Here we are, Marcus. Sit down there on the bench, and take off the shoes
you have on."

The boy had one of those long faces of the higher Jewish type,
intelligent, wistful. He seemed dazed by Insall's kindness. The shoes he
wore were those of an adult, but cracked and split, revealing the cotton
stocking and here and there the skin. His little blue hands fumbled with
the knotted strings that served for facings until Insall, producing a
pocket knife, deftly cut the strings.

"Those are summer shoes, Marcus--well ventilated."

"They're by me since August," said the boy.

"And now the stockings," prompted Insall. The old ones, wet, discoloured,
and torn, were stripped off, and thick, woollen ones substituted. Insall,
casting his eye over the open drawer, chose a pair of shoes that had been
worn, but which were stout and serviceable, and taking one in his hand
knelt down before the child. "Let's see how good a guesser I am," he
said, loosening the strings and turning back the tongue, imitating
good-humouredly the deferential manner of a salesman of footwear as he
slipped on the shoe. "Why, it fits as if it were made for you! Now for
the other one. Yes, your feet are mates--I know a man who wears a whole
size larger on his left foot." The dazed expression remained on the boy's
face. The experience was beyond him. "That's better," said Insall, as he
finished the lacing. "Keep out of the snow, Marcus, all you can. Wet feet