“Fifty guineas, father.”
“Indeed! And which was it, Jones or Lancaster, who stole the fifty guineas?”
“Neither, father. That is a common-pleas case of some importance, and the fifty guineas is my fee.”
“Your fee?” cried the old man. “You don’t mean to tell me that you get fifty-two pounds ten shillings, my boy, for your fee?”
“Yes, father, I do now,” said his son, smiling.
“Bless my soul! Why, Luke, you ought to grow rich.”
“Well, I suppose so, father; but I don’t much care. I should like to grow famous, and make myself a name.”
“And you will, my boy—you will,” cried the old man, as Luke slipped off his legal uniform, and replaced the wig and gown.
“Time proves all things, father.”
“And may I look? I won’t tell. Is this another brief?”