It was a small open space in one of the streets of Whitechapel, where
there was an area of flags, lying off the pavement. Several traders held
possession of this square, sitting on low stools, or cross-legged on the
ground, with their stock in trade around them. One dealer bought and sold
all kinds of old and rusty pieces of iron; another, a woman, ill clad and
with red eyes, displayed before her a dingy assortment of ragged clothes,
which were cheapened by other spare and red-eyed women, who held almost
naked children by the hand. It was cold, and a bitter, keen east wind was
searching every corner of London streets. The salesman Tony was come to
deal with had a tolerable selection of old boots, very few of them pairs,
some with pretty good upper-leathers, but with no soles worth speaking
of; and others thickly cobbled and patched, but good enough to keep the
feet dry, without presenting a very creditable appearance. For the first
time in his life Tony found out the perplexity of having a choice to
make. There were none which exactly fitted him; but a good fit is a
luxury for richer folks than Tony, and he was not troubled about it.
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