Sometimes a step sounding in the hall would set my heart fluttering; but this only announced a lady who wanted to know did we want eggs, or cabbage, or other articles of commerce. This, of course, was dreadfully disappointing; still, it was consoling to know that someone had found the house.
It was more assuring when one or two came in to know if “Torney Brown was in,” although that was the name of a rival practitioner long established in the town. It gave my clerk the opportunity of stating, in impressive tones, “No, this is ’Torney Malone’s office,” which he and I flattered ourselves was an excellent advertisement, and would some day have good results. Then came one day, a long, gawky-looking countryman to know when the Quarter Sessions were coming on, and what time had he for issuing a process. This was downright cheering. I asked him into my own office and made him sit down. I wrote out the date of the sessions and the last day for service on a sheet of notepaper with my address printed on it at the top. This induced him to tell me his case, in which, I need not say, I became deeply interested. It was a simple case of trover of a saddle, but I think I made as much out of it as if it were a question involving a thousand pounds. I examined and cross-examined him, like, I persuaded myself, an old hand, and felt certain that I had deeply impressed my client, for so I loved to think him. At last apparently satisfied, he rose to go.
“Well, good evenin’ to ye now, yer honour, and good luck, and myself ’ill come again before Thursday,” as he moved towards the door.
Then he hesitated for a second, and looking back he asked:
“Aren’t you ’Torney Brown, yer honour?”
I felt nettled, but controlling myself said quietly:
“No, I’m Mr. Malone, as you’ll see by the notepaper you have in your hand.”
He looked a little sheepishly at the notepaper, and then said as he moved off: