"Not so bad as it is for me," returned Nicholas with a laugh. "If you win one or two small cases, there's obliged to be undue influence of the devil."
"Which, occasionally, it is," added Tom seriously.
Dudley threw himself back into his chair and crossed his shapely legs. For a moment he smoked in silence, then he removed his cigar from his mouth and flecked the ashes upon the uncarpeted floor.
"Oh! the mystery to me is," he said, "that you exist down here and live to tell the tale—or at least that you earn enough crumbs to feed the crows."
"Kingsborough crows aren't high livers," remarked Nicholas as he threw himself into the remaining chair.
Dudley laughed softly—a humorous laugh that fell pleasantly on the ear.
"That reminds me," he began whimsically. "I met a tourist with spectacles walking along Duke of Gloucester Street. 'Sir,' he said courteously, 'I am looking for Kingsborough. I am told that it is a city.' 'Sir,' I responded, with a bow that did honour to my grandfather's ghost, 'it was once a chartered city; it is now only a charter.'"
Then he turned to Tom.
"We haven't got used to the railroad yet, have we?" he asked.
Tom shook his head.