“I say, my boy,” said the solicitor, amazed by the depth of emotion that was revealed in the face of the young man, “you did not suppose for one moment that I was in earnest when I said you had killed him?”
“You struck so near to the truth,” said the young man, “that you made me bleed.”
“Well, this is a consummate kind of folly. You must feed well; build yourself up; go away for Christmas; take a rest. Future greatness cannot be allowed to play ducks and drakes with its chances.”
“I swear to you, Whitcomb, the weight of a feather would make me throw up the bar.”
“Impossible! That voice, that presence, that imagination, that extraordinary dynamic quality—in other words, your genie, leaves you no choice.”
“I swear to you, Whitcomb, if it were not for my countrified old mother, who has worked her fingers to the bone to provide an education for me, I would never go into court any more.”
“Ah, well, I shall continue to send you briefs all the same. I cannot recall another man who has got a start such as yours, and I shall be astounded if through a whim you show yourself unworthy of your good fortune. Here is a check for ‘the monkey’ you won of me at lunch yesterday.”
“Five hundred pounds! I don’t remember anything of the circumstances.”
“I laid five hundred to fifty against your getting a verdict.”
“When?”