"I've had very little to do with them; Quirk, Gammon, and Snap—these are the people, eh?" Mr. Aubrey nodded. "Quirk is a stubborn wooden-headed fellow—an old hedgehog! Egad! that man's compounded more felonies, the old scamp, than any man in England! I should like to have him in the witness-box for a couple of hours, or so! I think I'd tickle him a little," said the Attorney-General, with a bitter smile. "They say he's a confidential adviser to a sort of Thieves' Association! But there's Gammon: I've had several things to do with him. He is a superior man, that Gammon, a very superior man. A keen dog! I recollect him being principal witness in a cause when I was for the plaintiff; and he completely baffled Subtle—ah, ha, how well I recollect it!—Subtle lost his temper at last, because he couldn't make Gammon lose his! Ah, how cleverly the fellow twisted and turned with Subtle for nearly an hour! ah, ha—Subtle looked so chagrined!—Have you seen Mr. Gammon?"
"No, I've had no occasion."
"He has a pleasing, gentlemanlike appearance; rather a striking face. He's the man you'll have to deal with in any negotiations on the subject I named. You must mind what you're about with him. You mustn't think me intrusive, Aubrey; but, have they sent in their bill yet?"
Mr. Aubrey involuntarily shuddered, as he answered in the negative.
"I'd give a trifle to know how the plague such people ever came to be concerned in such a case. 'Tis quite out of their way—which is in the criminal line of business!—They'll make their client pay for it through the nose, I warrant him:—By the way, what an inconceivably ridiculous little ass that Titmouse is—I saw him in court at York. If he'd only go on the stage, and act naturally, he'd make his fortune as a fool!"—Mr. Aubrey faintly smiled at this sally; but the topics which the Attorney-General had just before touched upon, had not a little oppressed his spirits.
"As this is comparatively an idle day with me," said the Attorney-General, "and I've got ten minutes more at your service—suppose I go with you at once—nothing like the present moment—to Mr. Weasel's?"
"I am greatly obliged to you," replied Aubrey—and both rose to go. "Say I shall be back in a few minutes," said the Attorney-General, in answer to his clerk, who reminded him as he passed, that Mr. Sergeant Squelch and Mr. Putty would be there in a moment or two's time. As they crossed the court—"How do you do, Mr. Putty?" said the Attorney-General, with lofty civility, to a grinning little confident personage who met him, exclaiming with flippant familiarity, "How do you do, Mr. Attorney?—Coming to your chambers—you don't forget?—Consultation—eh?"
"I perfectly recollect it, Mr. Putty, I shall return presently. Perhaps, if convenient, you will have the goodness to wait for a few minutes"—replied the Attorney-General, somewhat stiffly, and passed on, arm-in-arm with Mr. Aubrey.
"Now, that forward little imp's name, Aubrey, is Putty," whispered the Attorney-General. "He was a glazier by trade; but just as he finished his apprenticeship, an uncle left him a few hundred pounds, with which—would you believe it?—nothing would suit him but decking himself in a wig and gown, and coming to the bar—ah, ha!—The fellow's creeping, however, into a little business, positively! They say he has a cousin who is one of the officers to the sheriff of Middlesex, and puts a good many little things in his way! He's my junior in an action of libel against a newspaper, for charging his father-in-law—a baker who supplies some workhouse with bread—with making it of only one-third flour, one-third rye, and the remainder saw-dust—ah, ha, ha!—I dared hardly look at the judges while I moved the Rule for a New Trial, for fear of laughing! This is the case in which we're going to have the consultation he spoke of—but here's Mr. Weasel's." They mounted a narrow, dingy-looking, well-worn staircase—and on the first floor, beheld "Mr. Weasel" painted over the door. On the Attorney-General's knocking, as soon as his clear silvery voice was heard asking for Mr. Weasel, and his dignified figure had been recognized by the clerk, who had one pen in his mouth, and another behind his ear—that humble functionary suddenly bent himself almost double three or four times; and with flustered obsequiousness assured the great man that Mr. Weasel was quite at liberty. The next moment the Attorney-General and Mr. Aubrey were introduced into Mr. Weasel's room—a small dusky apartment wretchedly furnished, the walls being lined with book-shelves, well filled—and the table at which he was writing, and a chair on each side of him, strewed with draft paper, which he was covering at a prodigious rate. He was, in fact, drawing a "Declaration" in an action for a Breach of promise of Marriage, (taking a hasty pinch of fiery Welsh snuff every three minutes;) and his task seemed to be rendered very difficult, by the strange conduct of the defendant—surely the most fickle of mankind—who, with an extraordinary inconsistency, not knowing his own mind for a day together, had promised to marry Miss M'Squint, the heart-broken plaintiff, firstly, within a reasonable time; secondly, on a given day; thirdly, on the defendant's return from the Continent; fourthly, on the death of his father, (both of which events were averred to have taken place;) fifthly, when the defendant should have cut his wise teeth, (which it was averred he had;) and lastly, on "being requested" by the lady—which it was averred she had done, and in the most precise and positive manner, that she had been ready and willing, and then [what will the ladies say?] "tendered and offered herself to marry the said defendant," who had then wholly neglected and refused to do any such thing. One notable peculiarity of the case was, that all these promises had been made, and all these events appeared to have come to pass in one particular place—and that rather an odd one, viz. in "the parish of Saint Mary Le Bow, in the ward of Cheap, in the city of London."[16] If you had been better acquainted with Mr. Weasel's associations and mode of doing business, you would have discovered that, in his imagination, almost all the occurrences of life took place at this same spot! But to return—thus was that astute little pleader engaged when they entered. He was a bachelor, upwards of forty; was of spare make, of low stature, had a thin, sharp, sallow face, and short stiff black hair; there was an appearance about the eyes as if they were half-blinded with being incessantly directed to white paper; he had a furrowed forehead, a small pursed-up mouth—one hardly knew why, but really there was something about his look that instantly suggested to you the image of the creature whose name he bore. He was a ravenous lawyer, darting at the point and pith of every case he was concerned in, and sticking to it—just as would his bloodthirsty namesake at the neck of a rabbit. In law he lived, moved, and had his being. In his dreams he was everlastingly spinning out pleadings which he never could understand, and hunting for cases which he could not discover. In the daytime, however, he was more successful. In fact, everything he saw, heard, or read of—wherever he was, whatever he was doing, suggested to him questions of law, that might arise out of it. At his sister's wedding (whither he had not gone without reluctance) he got into a wrangle with the bridegroom, on a question started by himself, (Weasel,) whether an infant was liable for goods supplied to his wife, before marriage. At his grandmother's funeral he got into an intricate discussion with a puzzled proctor about bona notabilia, with reference to a pair of horn spectacles, which the venerable deceased had left behind her in Scotland, and a poodle in the Isle of Man; and at church, the reading of the parable of the Unjust Steward, set his devout, ingenious, and fertile mind at work for the remainder of the service, as to the modes of stating the case, now-a-days, against the offender, and whether it would be more advisable to proceed civilly or criminally; and if the former, at law or in equity. He was a hard-headed man; very clear and acute, and accurate in his legal knowledge; every other sort he despised, if, indeed, he had more than the faintest notion, from hearsay, of its existence. He was a Cambridge man; and there had read nothing but mathematics, in which he had made a decent figure. As soon as he had taken his degree, he migrated to the Temple, where he had ever since continued engaged in the study, and then the successful practice, of the law, as a special pleader under the bar. He had a very large business, which he got through ably and rapidly. He scarcely ever went into society; early want of opportunity for doing so, had at length abated his desire for it—to say nothing of his want of time. When, as was seldom the case, he ventured out for a walk, he went, muttering to himself, at a postman's pace, to get the greatest quantity of exercise in the smallest space of time. He was not a bad-tempered man, but, from the absorbing and harassing nature of his employments, he had become nervous, fidgety, and irritable. His tone of voice was feeble, his utterance hesitating, his manner hurried. What a laughable contrast between him and his visitor! The Attorney-General coming to Mr. Weasel's chambers, suggested the idea of a magnificent mastiff suddenly poking his head into the little kennel of a querulous pug-dog; and I suppose Mr. Aubrey might be likened to a greyhound accompanying the aforesaid mastiff! On seeing his visitors, Mr. Weasel instantly got up with a blush of surprise, and a little hurry and embarrassment of manner. His clerk put out a couple of chairs, and down they sat. The Attorney-General came to the point in about half a minute, and the matter was very quickly settled; it being arranged that within a day or two's time, as soon as the forms necessary for admitting Mr. Aubrey to an Inn of Court should have been completed, he should commence his attendance at Mr. Weasel's, from ten o'clock till five daily.