# The Literary Sense/The Man with the Boots

THE MAN WITH THE BOOTS
A YOUNG man with a little genius, a gift of literary expression, and a distaste not only for dissipation, but for the high-toned social functions of his suburban acquaintances, may go far—once he has chosen journalism for a profession, and has realised that to success in any profession a heart-whole service is necessary. A certain young man, having been kissed in his own garden by a girl with a guitar, ceased to care for evening parties, and devoted himself steadily to work. His relaxations were rowing down the Thames among the shipping, and thinking of the girl. In two years he was sent to Paris by the Thunderer—to ferret out information about a certain financial naughtiness which threatened a trusting public in general, and, in particular, a little band of blameless English shareholders.
​The details of the scheme are impertinent to the present narrative.
The young man went to Paris and began to enjoy himself.
He had good introductions. He had once done a similar piece of business before—but then luck aided him. As I said, he enjoyed himself, but he did not see his way to accomplishing his mission. But his luck stood by him, as you will see, in a very remarkable manner. At a masked ball he met a very charming Corsican lady. She was dressed as a nun, but the eyes that sparkled through her mask might have taxed the resources of the most competent abbess. She spoke very agreeable English, and she was very kind to the young man, indicated the celebrities—she seemed to know everyone—whom she recognised quite easily in their carnival disguises, and at last she did him the kindness to point out a stout cardinal, and named the name of the very Jew who was pulling the strings of the very business which had brought the young man to Paris.
The young man's lucky star shone full on him, and dazzled him to a seeming indiscretion.
​"He looks rather a beast," he said.
The nun clapped her hands.
"Oh—he is!" she said. "If you knew all that I could tell you about him!"
It was with the distinct idea of knowing all that the lady could tell about the Jew that our hero devoted himself to her throughout that evening, and promised to call on her the next day. He made himself very amiable indeed, and if you think that he should not have done this, I can only say that I am sorry, but facts are facts.
When he put her into her carriage—a very pretty little brougham—he kissed her hand. He did not do this because he desired to do it, as in the case of the Girl with the Guitar, but purely as a matter of business. If you blame him here I can only say "à la guerre comme à la guerre—"
Next day he called on her. She received him in a charming yellow silk boudoir and gave him tea and sweets. Unmasked, the lady was seen to be of uncommon beauty. He did not make love to her—but he was very nice, and she asked him to come again.
​It was at their third interview that his star shone again, and again dazzled him to indiscreetness. He told the beautiful lady exactly why he wanted to know all that she could tell him about the Jew financier. The beautiful lady clapped her hands till all her gold bangles rattled musically, and said—
"But I will tell you all—everything! I felt that you wished to know—but I thought . . . however . . . are you sure it will all be in your paper?"
"But yes, Madame!" said he.
Then she folded her hands on the greeny satin lap of her tea-gown, and told him many things. And as she spoke he pieced things together, and was aware that she spoke the truth.
When she had finished speaking, his mission was almost accomplished. His luck had done all this for him. The lady promised even documents and evidence. Then he thanked her, and she said—
"No thanks, please. I suppose this will ruin him?"
"I'm afraid it will," said he.
​She gave a little sigh of contentment.
"But why—?" he asked.
"I don't mind, somehow, telling you anything," she said, and indeed as it seemed with some truth. "He—he did me the honour to admire me—and now he has behaved like the pig he is."
"And so you have betrayed him—told me the things he told you when he loved you?"
She snapped her fingers, and the opals and rubies of her rings shone like fire.
"Love!" she said scornfully.
Then he began to be a little ashamed and sorry for his part in this adventure, and he said so.
"Ah—don't be sorry," she said softly. "I wanted to betray him. I was simply longing to do it—only I couldn't think of the right person to betray him to! But you are the right person, Monsieur. I am indeed fortunate!"
A little shiver ran through him. But he had gone too far to retreat.
"And the documents, Madame?"
"I will give you them to-morrow. There is a ​ball at the American Embassy. I can get you a card."
"I have one." He had indeed made it his first business to get one—was not the Girl with the Guitar an American, and could he dare to waste the least light chance of seeing her again?
"Well—be there at twelve, and you shall have everything. But," she looked sidelong at him, "will Monsieur be very kind—very attentive—in short, devote himself to me—for this one evening? He will be there."
He murmured something banal about the devotion of a lifetime, and went away to his lodging in a remote suburb, which he had chosen because he loved boating.
The next night at twelve saw him lounging, a gloomy figure, on a seat in an ante-room at the Embassy. He knew that the Lady was within, yet he could not go to her. He sat there despairingly, trying to hope that even now something might happen to save him. Yet, as it seemed, nothing short of a miracle could. But his star shone, and the miracle happened. For, as he sat, a radiant vision, all white lace and diamonds, detached itself from the arm of a ​grey-bearded gentleman, and floated towards him.
"It is you!" said the darling vision, and the next moment his hands—both hands—were warmly clasped by little white-gloved ones, and he was standing looking into the eyes of the Girl.
"I knew I should see you somewhere—this continent is so tiny," she said. "Come right along and be introduced to Papa—that's him over there."
"I—I can't," he answered, in an agony. "I—my pocket's been picked—"
"Do tell!" said the Girl, laughing; "but Papa doesn't want tipping—he's got all he wants—come right along."
"I can't," he said, hoarse with the misery of the degrading confession; "it wasn't my money—it was my shoes. I came up in boots, brown boots; distant suburb; train; my shoes were in my overcoat pocket—I meant to change in the cab. I must have dropped them or they were taken out. And here I am in these things." He looked down at his bright brown boots. "And all the shops are shut—and my whole ​future depends on my getting into that room within the next half-hour. But never mind! Why should you bother?—Besides, what does it matter? I've seen you again. You'll speak to me as you come back? I'll wait all night for a word."
"Don't be so silly," said the Girl; but she smiled very prettily, and her dear eyes sparkled. "If it's really important, I'll fix it for you! But why does your future depend on it, and all that?"
"I have to meet a lady," said the wretched young man.
"The one you were with at the masked ball? The nun? Yes—I made Papa take me. Is it that one?" Her tone was imperious, but it was anxious too.
He looked imploringly at her. "Yes, but—"
"You shall have the shoes, all the same," she interrupted, and turned away before he could add a word.
A moment later the grey-bearded gentleman was bowing to him.
"My girl tells me you're in a corner for want of shoes. Sir. Mine are at your service—we ​seem about of a size—we can change behind that pillar."
"But," stammered the young man, "it's too much—I can't—"
"It's nothing at all, Sir," said the man with the grey beard warmly; "nothing compared to the way you stood by my girl! Shake! John B. Warner don't forget."
"I can't thank you," said the other, when they had shaken hands. "If you will—just for a short time! I'll be back in half an hour—"
He was back in two minutes. The first face he saw when he had made his duty bows was the face of the Beautiful Lady. She was radiant: and beside her stood her Jew, also radiant. They had made it up. And what is more—though he never knew it—they had made it up in that half-hour of delay caused by the Boots. The Lady passed our hero without a word or even a glance to acknowledge acquaintanceship, and he saw that the game was absolutely up. He swore under his breath. But the next moment he laughed to himself with a free heart. After all—for any ​documents, any evidence, for any success in any walk of life, how could he have borne to devote himself, as he had promised to do, to that Corsican lady, while the Girl, the Girl, was in the room? And he perceived now that he should not even use the information he already had. It did not seem fitting that one to whom the Girl stooped to speak, for ever so brief a moment, should play the part of a spy—in however good a cause.
"Back already?" said the old gentleman.
"Thank you—my business is completed."
The young man resumed his brown boots.
"Now, Papa," said the Girl, "just go right along and do your devoirs in there—and I'll stay and talk to him—"
The father went obediently.
"Have you quarrelled with her, then?" asked the Girl, her eyes on the diamond buckles of her satin shoes.
He told her everything—or nearly.
"Well," she said decisively, "I'm glad you're out of it, anyway. Don't worry about it. It's a nasty trade. Papa'll find you a berth. Come out to the States and edit one of his papers!"
​"You told me he was a millionaire! I suppose everything went all right? He didn't lose his money or anything?" His tone was wistful.
"Not he! You don't know Papa!" said the Girl; "but, say, you're not going to be too proud to be acquainted with a self-made man?"
He didn't answer.
"Say," said she again, "I don't take so much stock in dukes as I used to." She laid a hand on his arm.
"Don't make a fool of me," said the young man, speaking very low.
"I won't,"—her voice was a caress,—"but Papa shall make Something of you. You don't know Papa! He can make men's fortunes as easily as other folks make men's shoes. And he always does what I tell him. Aren't you glad to see me again? And don't you remember—?" said she, looking at him so kindly that he lost his head and—
"Ah! haven't you forgotten?" said he.
That is about all there is of the story. He is now a Something—and he has married the Girl. If you think that a young man of ​comparatively small income should not marry the girl he loves because her father happens to have made money in pork, I can only remind you that your opinion is not shared by the bulk of our English aristocracy. And they don't even bother about the love, as often as not.