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- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.590Z
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- from Squire Woodcock, requiring Israel’s immediate return, stating the
hour at which he must arrive at the house, namely, two o’clock on the
following morning. So, after another night’s solitary trudge across the
country, the wanderer was welcomed by the same three gentlemen as
before, seated in the same room.
“The time has now come,” said Squire Woodcock. “You must start this
morning for Paris. Take off your shoes.”
“Am I to steal from here to Paris on my stocking-feet?” said Israel,
whose late easy good living at White Waltham had not failed to bring
out the good-natured and mirthful part of him, even as his prior
experiences had produced, for the most part, something like a contrary
result.
“Oh, no,” smiled Horne Tooke, who always lived well, “we have
seven-league-boots for you. Don’t you remember my measuring you?”
Hereupon going to the closet, the Squire brought out a pair of new
boots. They were fitted with false heels. Unscrewing these, the Squire
showed Israel the papers concealed beneath. They were of a fine tissuey
fibre, and contained much writing in a very small compass. The boots,
it need hardly be said, had been particularly made for the occasion.
“Walk across the room with them,” said the Squire, when Israel had
pulled them on.
“He’ll surely be discovered,” smiled Horne Tooke. “Hark how he creaks.”
“Come, come, it’s too serious a matter for joking,” said the Squire.
“Now, my fine fellow, be cautious, be sober, be vigilant, and above all
things be speedy.”
Being furnished now with all requisite directions, and a supply of
money, Israel, taking leave of Mr. Tooke and Mr. Bridges, was secretly
conducted down stairs by the Squire, and in five minutes’ time was on
his way to Charing Cross in London, where taking the post-coach for
Dover, he thence went in a packet to Calais, and in fifteen minutes
after landing, was being wheeled over French soil towards Paris. He
arrived there in safety, and freely declaring himself an American, the
peculiarly friendly relations of the two nations at that period,
procured him kindly attentions even from strangers.
CHAPTER VII.
AFTER A CURIOUS ADVENTURE UPON THE PONT NEUF, ISRAEL ENTERS THE
PRESENCE OF THE RENOWNED SAGE, DR. FRANKLIN, WHOM HE FINDS RIGHT
LEARNEDLY AND MULTIFARIOUSLY EMPLOYED.
Following the directions given him at the place where the diligence
stopped, Israel was crossing the Pont Neuf, to find Doctor Franklin,
when he was suddenly called to by a man standing on one side of the
bridge, just under the equestrian statue of Henry IV.—The man had a
small, shabby-looking box before him on the ground, with a box of
blacking on one side of it, and several shoe-brushes upon the other.
Holding another brush in his hand, he politely seconded his verbal
invitation by gracefully flourishing the brush in the air.
“What do you want of me, neighbor?” said Israel, pausing in somewhat
uneasy astonishment.
“Ah, Monsieur,” exclaimed the man, and with voluble politeness he ran
on with a long string of French, which of course was all Greek to poor
Israel. But what his language failed to convey, his gestures now made
very plain. Pointing to the wet muddy state of the bridge, splashed by
a recent rain, and then to the feet of the wayfarer, and lastly to the
brush in his hand, he appeared to be deeply regretting that a gentleman
of Israel’s otherwise imposing appearance should be seen abroad with
unpolished boots, offering at the same time to remove their blemishes.
“Ah, Monsieur, Monsieur,” cried the man, at last running up to Israel.
And with tender violence he forced him towards the box, and lifting
this unwilling customer’s right foot thereon, was proceeding vigorously
to work, when suddenly illuminated by a dreadful suspicion, Israel,
fetching the box a terrible kick, took to his false heels and ran like
mad over the bridge.
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