“Thank you.”
It was not often that Michael Carr’s praise was as direct as this.
“You will have been here four years the first of July.”
“Yes,—thanks to your tolerance.”
“You are the best clerk we ever had in the office, Morris. You are a good lawyer,—you are a lawyer after my own heart. I’ll have a hard time finding a clerk to take your place. Do you understand?”
Morris did not understand. The idea of losing his salary as clerk was not cheering.
“I’m going to check up,” said the old gentleman, settling back in his chair. “I’m sixty-four years old. I haven’t had any substantial vacation worth mentioning for twenty years. I’m getting to a time of life where a man has to think about the end of his days. Our old sign over the entrance has fallen down, and I take it as a hint that we need a new one. I have had a sentiment about keeping the name of the old firm; but it’s misleading to the new generation. I’m tired of the people that come in here and ask for the dead members. It’s hardly fair to subject their memories to that kind of treatment. We must drop the old name.”
“I should hate to see it go,” said Morris. “I’ve always been particularly proud to answer for the firm at roll-call on rule mornings.”
“I’m glad you feel that way about it. You never saw Knight or Kittredge, did you? I’m sure you didn’t. They were great men. There are no men like them at our bar.” And Michael Carr drew his hand gently across the book that lay in his lap, and was silent for a moment.
“Do you think you want to live here, Morris? Are you satisfied with the town?”