I marched through to the front of the smoking-car where the train-boy was arranging his little stock, bought a paper, and walked slowly back up the aisle with a glance to right and left at the faces of the men, hoping to get a rise from that “likely subject” I was hunting for.
One man returned my glance with interest.
After I sat down, well up in the car, I looked over the top of the newspaper and saw that the stranger’s interest in me continued. The chap had a broad face, liquor-mottled. After a while he unscrewed the top of a flask and sucked in a long drink. Then he worked his shoulders, jerked at the bottom of his waistcoat, wriggled his arms, and displayed other symptoms of a man who is trying to brace up and to pull himself together. At last he derricked himself out of his seat and swayed up the car aisle. He divided glances between my plug-hat and the frock-coat.
“Excuse me, but it’s the clothes,” said the stranger.
I nodded amiably.
“I wouldn’t butt in and speak to you if it wasn’t for the clothes.”
Once more I was having it impressed on me that a plug-hat and a frock-coat seemed to be good reliable openers in the jack-pot of chance. I reckoned I’d play the hand.
“You’re not a parson.”
“I’m far from it, sir.”
“The farthest from it I know is to be a lawyer. I spotted you for a lawyer. If you are one I want to talk with you.”