At length the momentous day arrived, and “Cobbler” Horn travelled by an early train to London, and, having dined frugally at a decent eating-house, presented himself in due time at the offices of Messrs. Tongs and Ball. The men of law were both seated in the room into which their new client was shown. One of them was a very little, round, rosy, middle-aged man, with an expression of countenance so cherubic that no one would have suspected him of being a lawyer; and the other was a tall, large-boned, parchment-faced personage, of whom almost any degree of heartlessness might have been believed. The two lawyers rose and bowed as “Cobbler” Horn was shown in.
“Mr. Horn?”
“Thomas Horn, at your service, gentlemen.”
“This is Mr. Tongs,” said the tall lawyer with a waive of his hand towards his rotund partner; “and I am Mr. Ball,” he added, drawing himself into an attitude which caused him to look much more like a bat than a ball, and speaking in a surprisingly agreeable tone. Upon this there was bowing all around, and then a pause.
“Pray take a seat, Mr. Horn,” besought Mr. Ball.
“Cobbler” Horn modestly obeyed.
“And now, my dear sir,” said Mr. Ball, when he himself and his partner had also resumed their seats, “let us congratulate you on your good fortune.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said “Cobbler” Horn gravely. “But the responsibility is very great. I am only reconciled to it by the thought that I shall now be able to do many things that I have long desired to do.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Ball, “it is one of the gratifications of wealth that a man is able to follow his bent—whether it be travelling, collecting pictures, keeping horses, or what not.”
“Of course,” echoed Mr. Tongs.