“Not Menzies v. Kilblane at any rate,” said the clerk, with his hand on a bulky Process, for he was a cheery soul and knew the mind of Daniel Dyce.
“I daresay not,” said the lawyer. “That plea will last a while, I’m thinking. And all about a five-pound fence! Let you and me, Alexander, thank our stars there are no sick bairns in the house of either Menzies or Kilblane, for then they would understand how much their silly fence mattered, and pity be on our canty wee Table-of-Fees!” He tossed over the papers with an impatient hand. “Trash!” said he. “What frightful trash! I can’t be bothered with them—not to-day. They’re no more to me than a docken leaf. And last week they were almost everything. You’ll have heard the child has got the turn?”
“I should think I did!” said Alexander. “And no one better pleased to hear it!”
“Thank you, Alick. How’s the family?”
“Fine,” said the clerk.
“Let me think, now—seven, isn’t it? A big responsibility.”
“Not so bad as long’s we have the health,” said Alexander.
“Yes, yes,” said Mr Dyce. “All one wants in this world is the health—and a little more money. I was just thinking—” He stopped himself, hummed a bar of melody, and twinkled through his spectacles. “You’ll have read Dickens?” said he.
“I was familiar with his works when I was young,” said Alexander, like a man confessing that in youth he played at bools. “They were not bad.”
“Just so! Well, do you know there was an idea came to my mind just now that’s too clearly the consequence of reading Dickens for a week back, so I’ll hold my hand and keep my project for another early occasion when it won’t be Dickens that’s dictating.”