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But my papa, when I wrote to him, would not hear of it; and three pounds, the price of a pair, was too large a sum for my mother to take from the housekeeping, or for me to pay, in the present impoverished state of my exchequer; but the desire for the boots was so strong, that have them I must at any rate.

There was a German bootmaker who had just set up in OUR town in those days, who afterwards made his fortune in London. I determined to have the boots from him, and did not despair, before the end of a year or two, either to leave the school, when I should not mind his dunning me, or to screw the money from mamma, and so pay him.

So I called upon this man–Stiffelkind was his name–and he took my measure for a pair.

“You are a vary yong gentleman to wear dop-boots,” said the shoemaker.

“I suppose, fellow,” says I, “that is my business and not yours. Either make the boots or not–but when you speak to a man of my rank, speak respectfully!” And I poured out a number of oaths, in order to impress him with a notion of my respectability.

They had the desired effect. “Stay, sir,” says he. “I have a nice littel pair of dop-boots dat I tink will jost do for you.” And he produced, sure enough, the most elegant things I ever saw. “Day were made,” said he, “for de Honorable Mr. Stiffney, of de Gards, but were too small.”

“Ah, indeed!” said I. “Stiffney is a relation of mine. And what, you scoundrel, will you have the impudence to ask for these things?” He replied, “Three pounds.”

“Well,” said I, “they are confoundedly dear; but, as you will have a long time to wait for your money, why, I shall have my revenge you see.” The man looked alarmed, and began a speech: “Sare,–I cannot let dem go vidout”–but a bright thought struck me, and I interrupted–“Sir! don’t sir me. Take off the boots, fellow, and, hark ye, when you speak to a nobleman, don’t say–Sir.”

“A hundert tousand pardons, my lort,” says he: “if I had known you were a lort, I vood never have called you–Sir. Vat name shall I put down in my books?”

“Name?–oh! why, Lord Cornwallis, to be sure,” said I, as I walked off in the boots.

“And vat shall I do vid my lort’s shoes?”

“Keep them until I send for them,” said I. And, giving him a patronizing bow, I walked out of the shop, as the German tied up my shoes in paper.

*****

This story I would not have told, but that my whole life turned upon these accursed boots. I walked back to school as proud as a peacock, and easily succeeded in satisfying the boys as to the manner in which I came by my new ornaments.

Well, one fatal Monday morning–the blackest of all black-Mondays that ever I knew–as we were all of us playing between school-hours, I saw a posse of boys round a stranger, who seemed to be looking out for one of us. A sudden trembling seized me–I knew it was Stiffelkind. What had brought him here? He talked loud, and seemed angry. So I rushed into the school-room, and burying my head between my hands, began reading for dear life.

“I vant Lort Cornvallis,” said the horrid bootmaker. “His lortship belongs, I know, to dis honorable school, for I saw him vid de boys at chorch yesterday.”

“Lord who?”

“Vy, Lort Cornvallis to be sure–a very fat yong nobeman, vid red hair: he squints a little, and svears dreadfully.”

“There’s no Lord Cornvallis here,” said one; and there was a pause.

“Stop! I have it,” says that odious Bunting. “IT MUST BE STUBBS!” And “Stubbs! Stubbs!” every one cried out, while I was so busy at my book as not to hear a word.

At last, two of the biggest chaps rushed into the schoolroom, and seizing each an arm, run me into the playground–bolt up against the shoemaker.