what might be called shabby genteel now,
and no wonder. If they could speak they would tell you many a strange
episode in the life of an Association football player, and how he kept
his place in a leading club for nearly a dozen years. They have been old
and dear friends, those well-worn boots, and although now somewhat
curled up at the toes, have kicked many a good goal out of a hot and
exciting scrummage in front of an opponent's upright posts, and even in
an International tussle; but now that they, like myself, have retired
from active duty, and may reasonably be supposed not to be encumbered
with existing prejudices, which in the nature of things might more or
less interfere with expressing an honest opinion about the Association
football player of the past or his colleagues and successors, I will
introduce them to you, and in figurative language allow them to tell
their own unvarnished tale. My last advice, however, to you, my old
friends, before leaving you to the tender mercies of a scribbler, is not
to answer all the questions he thinks proper to put. Please don't tell
him what you heard or saw after leaving the football field clinging to
my sole and instep, of my love intrigues, my stolen interviews with
blue-eyed Annie, and when she jilted me and got married to Charlie
Quilter, who played "left wing" in the Flying Blues. Charlie must have
regretted what he did more than once.

The Blues used to play us a couple of games in the year, and not long
before Charlie got married he was, as a matter of course, one of their
eleven. On that occasion I felt nettled to think that a big,
broosy-faced, lisping fellow like Charlie should have "put my eye out,"
and could not resist the temptation of frequently crossing to his side
during the game, and "going" for him. Oh! how my old companions, my
boots, behaved on the occasion--the very laces almost burst with
indignation; but Quilter, poor soul, never gave a winch, and bore it
with becoming fortitude. He has now, like myself, got settled in life (I
am a confirmed bachelor), and we are still the best of friends, for that
"blue-eyed Annie loved him, too," was one of those things I could never
forget. It is too bad, however, in me to block the way with this
dissertation, and not allow Mr. Boots to begin. I shall leave the rest
to him with confidence.

Well, once upon a time (began Mr. Boots), I was a combination of
circumstances. That is to say, I went through many processes