Part 3, Chapter I.
Part 3 — The Barrister’s Day.
In Chambers.
“With a rum-tum, tum-tum, tiddy-iddy tum, tiddy-rum-tum, tiddy-iddy bang!”
This was sung in a low-pitched, not unmusical voice, by a stunted, thickly-set lad of seventeen or eighteen, being his version of the well-known “March of the British Grenadiers”; and as he puffed forth the air in imitation of a wind instrument, the musical youth paraded the well-furnished office he occupied, with an enormous ebony ruler over his shoulder, held sword-fashion, and the stove poker in his left hand carried like a scabbard.
He was so far on the alert that he kept one eye upon a green baize-covered inner door, evidently leading into a private room, but not sufficiently watchful to see that another door had been opened, for as he got through a second strain of the march he called, softly, in imitation of a commanding officer, “Halt!—right about face. Band to the front!” Then his jaw dropped, and he made a bound to his desk.
The reason of this change was that a stern, dry-looking, well-dressed man stood there, with an umbrella in one hand, a blue bag in the other, and he did not smile, but showed his teeth slightly, as he saw the lad’s confusion.
“Drilling, eh?” he said, shutting the door close behind him. “Going to join the army?”