“But I understood you to say,” objected Gideon, “I certainly have it so in my notes—that your friend was a manufacturer of india-rubber overshoes.”
“I know it’s confusing at first,” said the Australian, with a beaming smile. “But he—in short, he combines the two professions. And many others besides—many, many, many others,” repeated Mr. Dickson, with drunken solemnity. “Mr. Thomas’s cotton-mills are one of the sights of Tallahassee; Mr. Thomas’s tobacco-mills are the pride of Richmond, Va.; in short, he’s one of my oldest friends, Mr. Forsyth, and I lay his case before you with emotion.”
The barrister looked at Mr. Thomas and was agreeably prepossessed by his open although nervous countenance, and the simplicity and timidity of his manner. “What a people are these Americans!” he thought. “Look at this nervous, weedy, simple little bird in a low-necked shirt, and think of him wielding and directing interests so extended and seemingly incongruous! But had we not better,” he observed aloud, “had we not perhaps better approach the facts?”
“Man of business, I perceive, sir!” said the Australian. “Let’s approach the facts. It’s a breach of promise case.”
The unhappy artist was so unprepared for this view of his position that he could scarce suppress a cry.
“Dear me,” said Gideon, “they are apt to be very troublesome. Tell me everything about it,” he added kindly; “if you require my assistance, conceal nothing.”
“You tell him,” said Michael, feeling, apparently, that he had done his share. “My friend will tell you all about it,” he added to Gideon, with a yawn. “Excuse my closing my eyes a moment; I’ve been sitting up with a sick friend.”
Pitman gazed blankly about the room; rage and despair seethed in his innocent spirit; thoughts of flight, thoughts even of suicide, came and went before him; and still the barrister patiently waited, and still the artist groped in vain for any form of words, however insignificant.
“It’s a breach of promise case,” he said at last, in a low voice. “I—I am threatened with a breach of promise case.” Here, in desperate quest of inspiration, he made a clutch at his beard; his fingers closed upon the unfamiliar smoothness of a shaven chin; and with that, hope and courage (if such expressions could ever have been appropriate in the case of Pitman) conjointly fled. He shook Michael roughly. “Wake up!” he cried, with genuine irritation in his tones. “I cannot do it, and you know I can’t.”