“Yes, father; I get plenty now.”
“But—but—you are not paid fifty guineas a-piece for them, my boy?”
“Yes, father, I take nothing below that fee now, and even then I get more than I can undertake.”
The old man threw himself back in his chair, and, after a struggle, drew out of his trousers pocket a reddish canvas bag, and untied the string around the neck.
“Why, what are you going to do, father?” said Luke.
“I’m going to pay my son the fee for the brief in Cyril Mallow’s case, and I’m as proud as proud to have it to do.”
“No, no,” cried Luke; “that must not be.”
“But I will, my boy, I will,” said the old man.
“No, no, father, I could not take it. You would hurt me if you pressed it.”
“But I’ve plenty of money, my boy.”