“My uncle, no doubt,” was the barrister’s conclusion.
“My name is John Dickson,” continued Michael; “a pretty well-known name in Ballarat; and my friend here is Mr. Ezra Thomas, of the United States of America, a wealthy manufacturer of india-rubber overshoes.”
“Stop one moment till I make a note of that,” said Gideon; any one might have supposed he was an old practitioner.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind my smoking a cigar?” asked Michael. He had pulled himself together for the entrance; now again there began to settle on his mind clouds of irresponsible humour and incipient slumber; and he hoped (as so many have hoped in the like case) that a cigar would clear him.
“Oh, certainly,” cried Gideon blandly. “Try one of mine; I can confidently recommend them.” And he handed the box to his client.
“In case I don’t make myself perfectly clear,” observed the Australian, “it’s perhaps best to tell you candidly that I’ve been lunching. It’s a thing that may happen to any one.”
“O, certainly,” replied the affable barrister. “But please be under no sense of hurry. I can give you,” he added, thoughtfully consulting his watch—“yes, I can give you the whole afternoon.”
“The business that brings me here,” resumed the Australian with gusto, “is devilish delicate, I can tell you. My friend Mr. Thomas, being an American of Portuguese extraction, unacquainted with our habits, and a wealthy manufacturer of Broadwood pianos—”
“Broadwood pianos?” cried Gideon, with some surprise. “Dear me, do I understand Mr. Thomas to be a member of the firm?”
“O, pirated Broadwoods,” returned Michael. “My friend’s the American Broadwood.”