PHILADELPHIA.
"Rhyming Joe."
While Sharpman was examining the card, his visitor was forming in his mind a plan of procedure. He had come there with a carefully concocted lie on his tongue to swindle the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of enough money to fill an empty purse.
"Will you be seated, Mr. Cheekerton?" said the lawyer, looking up from the card.
"Thank you, sir!"
The young man drew the chair indicated by Sharpman closer to the table, and settled himself comfortably into it.
"It is somewhat unusual, I presume," he said, "for attorneys to receive calls on Sunday evening:—
"But this motto I hold as a part of my creed,
The better the day, why, the better the deed.
"Excuse me! Oh, no; it doesn't hurt. I've been composing extemporaneous verse like that for fifteen years. Philosophy and rhyme are my forte. I've had some narrow escapes to be sure, but I've never been deserted by the muses. Now, as to my Sunday evening call. It seemed to be somewhat of a necessity, as I understand that the evidence will be closed in the Burnham case at the opening of court to-morrow. Am I right?"
"It may be, and it may not be," said Sharpman, somewhat curtly. "I am not acquainted with the plans of the defence. Are you interested in the case?"