“Large practice?” he asked.
“Large enough for my needs,” I answered winningly.
“H’m!” He sniffed. “They don’t appear to be many.”
“That—excuse me—is my affair,” I said with dignity.
“Of course,” he said; “of course. Only I looked you up—accident serving intuition—on the supposition that you were green, you know—one of the briefless ones—called to the Bar, but not chosen, eh?”
I plumped instantly for frankness.
“You are my first retainer,” I said.
His manner changed at once. He pulled his chair a little nearer me, with an eager motion.
“Thats what I wanted,” he said. “That’s it. The sort that are suffering to win their spurs. None of your egregious old-stagers, who require their briefs to be endorsed to the tune of three figures before they’ll move—‘monkey’-in-the-slot men, I call ’em. Thinks I to myself, Here’s the sort that’ll be willing to take up a case on spec’.”
My enthusiasm shot down to zero.