It was not.
On the next morning, Patty received a note from the Astor House where Mr. Webster lived when in New York. She took it to her father with a cry of pride:
“See, papa, what I’ve brought you, Mr. Webster’s head on a platter.”
All that RoBards could say in self-defense was a rather petty sarcasm: “I hope that Mr. Webster doesn’t do for you what he did not long ago: he drank so much that he tried the wrong side of the case.”
Patty snapped back at him: “Yes, but before he sat down, someone told him of his mistake, and he went right on and answered all his own arguments—and won for his client: as he will for Papa.”
“I hope so,” RoBards groaned, wondering if he really hoped so.
Old Jessamine was so sure now of his two hundred thousand dollars that he decided to spend more of it in making doubly sure. He would engage the next best lawyer in America, Benjamin F. Butler.
“With Webster and Butler as my counsel,” he roared, “I’ll make even this old city pay its honest debts.”
RoBards’ head drooped as he noted that his own name was not even mentioned, though he had fought the case for ten years at his own expense and must instruct the two Titans in all its details.
He felt a little meaner than ever when Patty noted his shameful distress and said: