For years he had been at daggers drawn with the owners of the three largest shops, and the small fry could barely make a living for themselves.
The street-arab in him, used to the freedom of a small shop, recoiled from the thought of Packard's, the huge factory where you became a machine, repeating one operation indefinitely till you were fit for nothing else.

Paasch had taught him the trade thoroughly, from cutting out the insoles to running the bead-iron round the finished boot.

As a forlorn hope, he resolved to call on Bob Watkins.

Bob, who always passed the time of day with him, had been laid up with a bad cold for weeks.

He might be glad of some help.