John O'Hanlon was a man past middle life, tall, a little stooped in the shoulders, black-haired, neither fat nor lean, dark, ruddy, with whiskers just tinged with gray, loud-voiced, and aggressive in manner, and owning a pair of enormous brown hands. One of the peculiarities of O'Hanlon was that no matter how well prepared he might be for the advent of any one who came to him he was always at that moment busy, or about to be busy, with something or somebody else.
As the young man entered the private office of the solicitor the latter rose hastily, pointed to a chair, and said rapidly:
"A minute, O'Brien--a minute. Sit down. I want to tell Gorman something."
Gorman was the head clerk--a red-haired, restless little man, who was always to be found in the front office, and who never seemed to have anything more important to do than lean against the folded window-shutter and look out into the street, but who was reputed to be more wily than any two fully sworn-in attorneys in Kilbarry.
After a short absence, O'Hanlon came back.
"My dear O'Brien, I'm delighted to see you."
He took both his client's hands, and shook them most cordially. He had the reputation of being the most insincere man you could meet on a summer's day; but no one had ever been able to point out any one act of insincerity in his conduct.
"I got your letter," said O'Brien, after replying to the greetings of the other, "and here I am. I came post-haste."
"Right, right, my boy! Those rascally commissioners will be the death of me. They'll be the death of every man in the neighbourhood who takes an interest in salmon, except the net men."
"Well, what is it this time? The same old story, as well as I could gather from your letter."