“Just as I always suspected,” sneered the grumpy old cobbler.
Nicky froze under the glaring kitchen lights. He was caught red-handed, his hand literally in the cookie jar. An irony not lost on the diminutive elf.
But Nicky had his reasons.
He worked doubles all week in preparation for the spring launch. He was hungry. Tired. And what he wanted was to savor an oatmeal raisin cookie, a specialty of the shoemaker’s wife.
Besides, if the boss isn’t happy, he can always pick up a hammer and awl and help.
“Back to work,” demanded the cobbler. “Shoes don’t make themselves.”
The Weekday One Hundred 