Have You Got Any Old Boots?
No slight portion of the ills that flesh is heir to, in a city life, is
the culinary item of rent day. Washing day has had its day--machines and
fluid have made washing a matter of science and ease, and we are no
longer bearded by fuming and uncouth women in the sulks and suds, as of
yore, on the day set apart for renovating soiled dimities and dickeys.
Another and more important matter, from the extent of its obnoxiousness
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to our nerves and temper, has come home to our very threshold and
hearths, to disturb the even tenor of our domestic quietude and peace.
"Have you got any ole boots?"
Boston lost a good citizen by those bell-pulling, gate-whacking,
back-door-pounding infernal collectors of time and care-worn boots.
The old boot gatherers were almost as diverting as novel to me, when I
first located in Boston; but I have long since learned to hate and abhor
them, and their co-laborers in the tin-pan, tape, tea-pot, willow work,
and white pine ware trade, with a most religious enthusiasm.
"Have you got any ole boots?"
How often--a hundred times at least, have I gone to the door and heard
this inquiry--ten times in one day, for I kept count of it, and used
enough "strong language" at each shutting--banging to of the door, to
last a "first officer" through a gale of wind.
"Have you got any ole boots?"
The idea of jumping up from your beef steak and coffee, or morning
paper--just as you had got into a deeply interesting bit of information
on "breadstuff's," California, or the Queen's last baby, to open your
door, and espy a grim-visaged and begrimed son of the Emerald Isle,
just rearing his phiz above the pyramid of ancient and defiled leather,
and meekly asking--
"Have yez got any ole boots?"
These collectors are of course prepared for any amount of explosive
gas you may shower down upon their uncombed crowns, as the cool and
perfectly-at-home manner they descend your steps to mount those of your
next-door neighbor plainly indicates. The "pedlers" and--
"Have you got any ole boots?"
Drove my respected--middle-aged friend Mansfield--clear out of town! Mr.
Mansfield was a retired flour merchant; he was not rich, but well to
do in the world. He had no children of his own, in lieu of which,
however, he had become responsible for the "bringing up" of two orphans
of a friend. One of these children was a boy, old enough to be
devilish and mightily inclined that way. The boy's name was Philip,
the foster father he called Uncle Henry, and not long after arriving in
town, and opening house at the South End, Mr. Mansfield--who was given
to quiet musings, book and newspaper reading--found that he was likely
to become a victim to the aforesaid hawkers, pedlers and old boot
collectors.
Uncle Henry stood it for a few months, with the firmness of an
experienced philosopher, laying the flattering unction to his soul that,
however harrowing--
"Got any ole boots to-day?"
might be to him, for the present, he could grin and bear and finally get
used to it, as other people did. But Uncle Henry possessed an irritable
and excitable temperament, that not one man in ten thousand could boast
of, and hence he grew--at length sour, then savage, and, finally, quite
meat-axish, towards every outsider who dared to ring his bell, and
proffer wooden ware and tin fixins, for rags and rubbers, or make the
never-to-be-forgotten inquiry--
"Have you got any ole boots to-day?"
Always at home, seated in his front parlor, and his frugal wife not
permitting the expense of a servant, Uncle Henry, or Master Philip, were
obliged to wait on the door. The old gentleman finally concluded that
the pedlers and old boot collectors, more as a matter of daily amusement
than profit or concern--gave him a call. And laboring under this
impression, Uncle Henry determined to give the nuisances, as he called
them, a reception commensurate with their impertinence and his worked up
ire.
"Now, Philly," said Uncle Henry, one morning after breakfast, "we'll fix
these--
"'Got any ole boots?'
"We'll give the rascals a caution, they won't neglect soon, I'll warrant
them. Bring me the hammer and nails; that's a man; now get uncle the
high chair; so, that's it; now I'll fix this shelf up over the top of
the door, on a pivot--bore this hole through here--put the string
through that way, here, umph; oh, now we'll have a trap for the
scoundrels. I'll learn them how to come pulling people's bells, clean
out by the very roots, making us drop all, to come wait on them, rot
them--
"'Got any ole boots?'
"I'll give you old boots, by the lord Harry; I'll give you a dose of
something you won't forget, to your dying day."
And thus jabbering, fixing and pushing about the revolving shelf, over
his hall door, Mr. Mansfield worked away at his trap. Like that of most
dwellings in Boston, Uncle Henry's front door was sunk some six or
eight feet into the face of the house, reached by a flight of six
granite steps--side and top lights to the door, in the ordinary way,
with brass plate and bell pull. It was in a neighborhood not plebeian
enough to induce butcher boys to enter the hall, with the pork and
potatoes, nor admit of the servant girl heaving "slops" out of the
front windows; yet not sufficiently parvenu to impress pedlers and
"Got any ole boots?"
with aristocratic or "respectable" awe, ere venturing to mount the
steps, pull the bell, and mention tin pots, scrap iron, rags and old
leather. Mr. Mansfield was inclined to chuckle in his sleeves at the
ruse he would be enabled to give his tormentors through the agency of
his revolving battery--charged with ground charcoal and brick dust, to
be worked by himself or Philly, by means of a string on the inside.
Philly was duly initiated into the modus operandi; when--
"Got any ole boots?"
made his appearance, amid his pyramid of leather, or a pedler's wagon
was seen in the neighborhood, Philly was to be on the qui vive, inform
Uncle Henry, and if they mounted the steps, he would give them a shower
bath upon a new and astonishing principle.
It was perfect "nuts" for Master Phil; he was tickled at the idea, and
readily agreed to Uncle Henry's propositions. Not long after arranging
the "infernal machine," Uncle Henry's attention was called to another
part of the house; a dire calamity had befallen the Canary bird; a
strange cat had pounced upon the cage--the door flew open, and puss
nabbed the little warbler. Philly, on the look out, in front, discovers
two old boot men approaching the neighborhood; desirous of showing his
own skill, he did not call Uncle Henry, but posted himself behind the
door--string in hand, awaiting the cue. Feet approach--quickly the
feet mount the steps.
"Ding al ling, ding de ding, ding, ding, ding!"
"Sh-i-i-s-swashe!" and down comes the avalanche of coal dust and
refined brick, the bulk of a peck, fair measurement!
Uncle Henry reached the door just in time to see the penny postman
covered from head to foot with the obnoxious composition! Philly took
occasion to make a sudden exit, the postman swore--swore like a trooper,
but Uncle Henry managed to pack the whole transaction upon the "devilish
boy"--brushed the postman's clothes, and after some effort, so mollified
him as to induce the sufferer to depart in peace. Uncle Henry tried to
be very severe on Philly, but it was very evident to that hopeful that
the old gentleman was more tickled than serious. Philly cleared the
steps, and the old gentleman re-arranged the trap, admonishing Philly
not to dare to meddle with it again, but call him when--
"Got any ole boots?" made their appearance.
All was quiet up to noon next day; Uncle Henry had business down town,
and left the house at 9 A. M. Philly was at school, but got home before
Uncle Henry, and seeing the pedler wagon near the door--slipped in, and
learning that the old gentleman was out, he gladly took charge of the
battery again. Now, just as the pedler mounted the steps of the next
door, Mr. Mansfield sees him, and hurries up his own steps, to be on the
watch for the pedler. Philly had been peeking out the corner of the side
curtain, and seeing the pedler coming, as he thought, right up the
steps--nabbed the string, and as Uncle Henry caught the knob of the
door--down came thundering the brick dust and charcoal both, in the most
elegant profusion.
Phil was tricked. Uncle Henry's vociferations were equal to that of a
drunken beggar--the trap was removed, Uncle Henry got disgusted with
city life, and left--for rural retirement, without as much as giving one
single rebuke to--
"Got any ole boots to-day?"