He had made the proud to skip ahead; ladies, that one would not suspect of either agility or pliability, had made creditable running-long-jumps merely because Jimmie did not twist the brake. Bankers, plutocrats and plumbers instantly dropped their accustomed airs of superiority and hiked out-of-that when Jimmie’s foot trod the gong. This showed him clearly that at heart all men were simple. The airs assumed were but a mask, concealing a real desire to please.
Jimmie may have belonged to one of the first families of Ireland, but his estate had fallen low—so low, in fact, that he held in his hand the incredible, and now, away from his platform of authority, he needs must tell the intrenched lawyer-man a strange tale.
Strong of heart was Jimmie. He rallied.
“Your name Simmonds?” he asked, with a grimy thumb indicating the signature on the letter he extended for the lawyer’s inspection.
“Yes, sir,” barked the lawyer with severity.
“Who gave you that name?” inquired Jimmie in a spirit of levity.
“What is that?” returned the lawyer.
Jimmie recalled himself to his position. “Oh,” said he, “I want to know whether this thing is a fake or not.”
The lawyer extended a hand like a rat-trap, and snapped the letter toward him.
“Certainly not,” he said with decision. “Certainly not. You have been left, through his dying intestate, by your maternal uncle, the sum of five thousand dollars, as I have acquainted you in this letter.”