matters worse.”
“Enough, already!”
“Of course,” said Nathan, the Photographer, who saw that his man was obdurate, “for the painting of your fascia you could just put I . Small .”
“I., schmy, pie—enough!” So the old man clung to his Yisroel. But people called him “Srul” or “I”. Renamed Small, he was called “Big” in the family, because he was a wretched failure and everything he touched fell to dust and ashes.
CHAPTER IV
Now he had nothing but his trade to lose. He had intended to set up shop as a shoe repairer, but Millie drew the line at that. She had seen him at work once or twice, and hated the sight of his nails, black with cobbler’s wax, and the smell of leather and old boots. Working, he wore no coat; his shirt-sleeves were rolled up and his arms were bare to the elbow while he impolitely spat out of his mouth shiny iron brads which he banged into the soles of common men’s boots. This, in itself, was repulsive. There were women’s boots, too, and it seemed that he caressed these instead of handling them with proper severity. He wriggled his fingers, tickling their tongues below the laces, and repaired their soles and heels with the tiniest, tenderest, softest nails. A nice business, this, in which a man humbly mended the dirty boots of working men and the footwear of God knows what female scum of the streets! Besides—to be married to a man in such a trade, and to have to admit the fact! My hubby is a tobacconist, Sarah could say…. Pearl could boast: My husband is a dealer in electrical goods. Lily, that bragger, was already telling the world that she was married to a photographer…. Thank God I’m not married! Becky would say, please God, laying herself open to a couple of savage stabs…. Ruth, the accursed one, had married herself to an estate agent, if you please: Izzy is in the office, she might say, on the slightest provocation.
Was Millie to be reduced to apologising to her friends for having married a black-handed, waxy-nailed, sweating, knife-wielding, hammering, slashing cobbler? The whole world knew already that she had paid for her own ring. Someone had dropped a word: the whole town was ringing with the story. Now was there to be more shame and humiliation?
A family conference was called.
I. Small suggested mildly that, after all, people couldn’t go around on their bare feet. People had to have boots. Not being Rothschild, the man in the street had to get soled and heeled just like everybody else. There was a living in it; it was a trade. He couldn’t make boots and shoes, but he knew how to repairthem. He suggested the establishment of a cobbler’s shop. It was not likely that there was a fortune to be made out of it, but a man who was not afraid of hard work might make a good solid living.
The family looked up, exchanged glances, and smiled. Teeth were sucked and heads were wagged until Lily kicked Nathan, the Photographer, who made diplomacy, saying, in an ambiguous voice: “There’s money in boots and shoes. Look at Randall’s. Look at Freeman, Hardy & Willis. Buy from a reliable wholesaler , push your stuff, and sell it. Like that you can make good. Now ask yourself a question——”
“—Listen to him,” said Lily.
“—How long does it take to sole and heel a pair of boots?”
“It depends——” began I. Small.
“—Don’t interrupt—you’re not at home now,” said Millie.
Nathan, the Photographer, continued severely: “Excuse me. How long does it take to mend a pair of boots? Half an hour? An hour? An hour and a half——?”
“—Well, it depends——”
“—Please! Call it half an hour. How much do you get for it? Two, three shillings?”
“Now that depends——”
“Manners, manners, Rollo!”
“I don’t know what you mean by Rollo.”
“—Call it two-and-six. From this deduct the cost of the leather, the cost of the nails, and your rent, because it takes time. You’ve got to be sensible. You pay, say,
“Enough, already!”
“Of course,” said Nathan, the Photographer, who saw that his man was obdurate, “for the painting of your fascia you could just put I . Small .”
“I., schmy, pie—enough!” So the old man clung to his Yisroel. But people called him “Srul” or “I”. Renamed Small, he was called “Big” in the family, because he was a wretched failure and everything he touched fell to dust and ashes.
CHAPTER IV
Now he had nothing but his trade to lose. He had intended to set up shop as a shoe repairer, but Millie drew the line at that. She had seen him at work once or twice, and hated the sight of his nails, black with cobbler’s wax, and the smell of leather and old boots. Working, he wore no coat; his shirt-sleeves were rolled up and his arms were bare to the elbow while he impolitely spat out of his mouth shiny iron brads which he banged into the soles of common men’s boots. This, in itself, was repulsive. There were women’s boots, too, and it seemed that he caressed these instead of handling them with proper severity. He wriggled his fingers, tickling their tongues below the laces, and repaired their soles and heels with the tiniest, tenderest, softest nails. A nice business, this, in which a man humbly mended the dirty boots of working men and the footwear of God knows what female scum of the streets! Besides—to be married to a man in such a trade, and to have to admit the fact! My hubby is a tobacconist, Sarah could say…. Pearl could boast: My husband is a dealer in electrical goods. Lily, that bragger, was already telling the world that she was married to a photographer…. Thank God I’m not married! Becky would say, please God, laying herself open to a couple of savage stabs…. Ruth, the accursed one, had married herself to an estate agent, if you please: Izzy is in the office, she might say, on the slightest provocation.
Was Millie to be reduced to apologising to her friends for having married a black-handed, waxy-nailed, sweating, knife-wielding, hammering, slashing cobbler? The whole world knew already that she had paid for her own ring. Someone had dropped a word: the whole town was ringing with the story. Now was there to be more shame and humiliation?
A family conference was called.
I. Small suggested mildly that, after all, people couldn’t go around on their bare feet. People had to have boots. Not being Rothschild, the man in the street had to get soled and heeled just like everybody else. There was a living in it; it was a trade. He couldn’t make boots and shoes, but he knew how to repairthem. He suggested the establishment of a cobbler’s shop. It was not likely that there was a fortune to be made out of it, but a man who was not afraid of hard work might make a good solid living.
The family looked up, exchanged glances, and smiled. Teeth were sucked and heads were wagged until Lily kicked Nathan, the Photographer, who made diplomacy, saying, in an ambiguous voice: “There’s money in boots and shoes. Look at Randall’s. Look at Freeman, Hardy & Willis. Buy from a reliable wholesaler , push your stuff, and sell it. Like that you can make good. Now ask yourself a question——”
“—Listen to him,” said Lily.
“—How long does it take to sole and heel a pair of boots?”
“It depends——” began I. Small.
“—Don’t interrupt—you’re not at home now,” said Millie.
Nathan, the Photographer, continued severely: “Excuse me. How long does it take to mend a pair of boots? Half an hour? An hour? An hour and a half——?”
“—Well, it depends——”
“—Please! Call it half an hour. How much do you get for it? Two, three shillings?”
“Now that depends——”
“Manners, manners, Rollo!”
“I don’t know what you mean by Rollo.”
“—Call it two-and-six. From this deduct the cost of the leather, the cost of the nails, and your rent, because it takes time. You’ve got to be sensible. You pay, say,
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