Tuscan gentlemen on city street-corners was all I had to go by. Their first act is to knock the backs of the brushes together. I did that. The crowning feature of the ceremony is to lean over, with your mouth wide open, an inch from the shoe, and then say “Ha-a-a-a-a!” as you do when the doctor has the handle of the teaspoon down your throat, looking for tonsilitis. I did that. Between the two, I brushed with unexampled energy, and for one brief moment saw my efforts crowned with triumph. A tiny spot of brilliance appeared on the extreme tip of one shoe, and then abruptly vanished. That was the sole symptom of success. I laboured for full an hour longer, without inducing anything more than a sulky dullness, and then I gave it up. Not that I was to blame. If the stove-polish had been kept in a proper place, there would have been no chance of my confusing it with the blacking.
If it was with an added respect for the services
