Paasch stared; but the words were a blur to his short sight, and he went inside to look for his spectacles, which he had pushed up on his forehead in order to dress the window.

By the time he had looked everywhere without finding them, the painter had finished the lettering, and was outlining the figure of something on the window with rapid strokes.
Paasch itched with impatience.

He would have crossed the street to look, but he made it a rule never to leave the shop, even for a minute, lest someone should steal the contents in his absence.

As he fidgeted with impatience, it occurred to him to ask a small boy, who was passing, what was being painted on the window.
"Why, a boot of course," replied the child.
Paasch's amazement was so great that, forgetting the caution of a lifetime, he walked across until the words came into range.

What he saw brought him to a standstill in the middle of Botany Road, heedless of the traffic, for the blur of words had resolved themselves into: JOSEPH JONES, BOOTMAKER.
Repairs neatly executed.
And, underneath, the pattern of a shoe, which the painter was finishing with rapid strokes.
So, thought Paasch, another had come to share the trade and take the bread out of his mouth, and he choked with the egotistical dread of the shopkeeper at another rival in the struggle for existence.