You all knew Smith—every body knew Smith, and Smith was known by every body—consequently, Smith was considered somebody. A body is supposed to contain a soul; Smith's body not only contained a soul, but certain parts of Smith's body made and mended other men's soles. Smith was enterprising, industrious, and won thereby the sole control of the boot and shoe business of the flourishing town of Kipp. Smith was a thriving man, a persevering man; Smith was, in fact, a strip of upper-leather. Just about the time of his greatest success, when the tide of fortune appeared to bear upon its surface a perfect skin of Smith's manufactured high-lows, and earth shook beneath the tread of his patent cork soles, along came Jones. Strange freak of fate! Jones was an adventurer,—a desperate adventurer,—a fellow who had made soles his study and upper leather his dream; he was a Napoleon in his business, and could slash calf-skin into a killing shape for pedal extremities;—in short, he was boot No. 1, both in the manufacture and sale of the article. In Jones' wanderings along the streets of Kipp, his eye fell upon the broad sign of “Smith, Fashionable Boot and Shoe Maker.” There was something prosperous and aristocratic about it, but, at the “Fashionable,” Jones turned up his nose.

“Ox-hide fashion,” says Jones, “Good common article, but won't sell alongside of a prime one. I'll drive that fellow, Smith, out of Kipp town—have it all to myself—do a smashing business—re-sole the town—become upper-leather in the community—president of town council—die mayor of the borough, and have all my own manufactured shoes walking at my funeral.—Lofty thought,” added Jones.

In a very short time, upon the principal street in Kipp, in sight of Smith's, out swung a large flag, with the name of “Jones, importer, manufacturer, and patent leather boot and shoe artiste.” Smith stared, the flag fluttered, and Jones chuckled. Customers began to patronise Jones, and the flag seemed saucily to triumph, as it floated upon the breeze blowing towards Smith's door. Smith was a man of energy, though, and out came his new “patent gaiter boot;” the tide turned and Smith was again in the ascendant. Now began a leather war—Jones up and Smith down, Smith up again and Jones down, as each rival, alternately, brought out something new. At length, one bright morning, the inhabitants of Kipp, who had taken sides in the contest, were astounded by the appearance of the front of Smith's store—it was one entire sign, from the pavement to the roof. Jones looked blue, the flag fluttered like a tattered rag. Smith rose in importance—his friends felt proud of him—it was a Kipp triumph over foreign capital—the Jones party wavered!—not so Jones; his great mind had conceived a stupendous overthrow for Smith, and ere admiration for his rival had settled into sure success, it was diverted to himself. An immense flag, of stone, with his name in large letters, was scientifically planted right in the centre of Jones' pavement.

The town now became feverish with excitement, and it was rumored that the town council intended to consider the matter—the “signs of the times” grew alarming.

Glorious Smith!—Smith for ever!—unyielding to the last! In this emergency, when the horizon seem'd heavy with defeat, when a vast stone seemed to press his fortunes into the earth, Smith arose, Phonix like, “from a boot,” and gave assurance to the world that he was no common leather. Rapid as the thought which conceived the idea, he had a vast boot constructed, placed upon a post in front of his door, and with a sample of his manufacture in each hand, he mounted into it, to exhibit to the passers by not only a spectacle of indomitable energy, but un-flagging perseverance.

“What do you think of Smith now?” said the adherents of the “big boot,”—“bravo, Smith!” shouted the Kippites. Here was a climax to which ingenuity could discover no parallel, it was indeed the ne plus ultra.

Jones put his hands behind his coat-tails, and looked up street at the big boot and its tenant, then at the stone flag beneath his feet, and his countenance settled into a calm and desperate determination. “I'll do it!” exclaimed he. The expression was caught up by his friends, wafted through the town, and whispered in each dwelling, until the excitement and expectation grew painful. Everybody was aching to see what Jones would do.

Jones cut out a capacious pair of boots, set his workmen at them, had them finished, sent every living soul away from his shop at early candle-light, closed it up, and all remained a mystery for the remainder of the night. Morning broke—astonishment and horror!—terrible Jones!—triumphing in death! He had drawn on the immense boots, fastened them by suspenders across his shoulders, and then suspended himself from the flag-staff right over the flag-stone. Beneath him fluttered a postscript attached to the boots; its substance was, “Has Smith the sole to imitate this?” Smith hadn't.