"Come, come, now," said Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. "Brace up, old feller. What you want to do is to get a lawyer and go put the screws on George."
"Is it really?" asked the old man, eagerly.
"Certainly, it is," said Tom.
"All right," cried the old man, with enthusiasm. "Tell me where to get one." He slid down from the railing and prepared to start off.
Tom reflected. "Well," he said, finally, "I might do for one myself."
"What," shouted the old man in a voice of admiration, "are you a lawyer as well as a reader?"
"Well," said Tom again, "I might appear to advantage as one. All you need is a big front," he added, slowly. He was a profane young man.
The old man seized him by the arm. "Come on, then," he cried, "and we'll go put the screws on George."
Tom permitted himself to be dragged by the weak arms of his companion around a corner and along a side street. As they proceeded, he was internally bracing himself for a struggle, and putting large bales of self-assurance around where they would be likely to obstruct the advance of discovery and defeat.
By the time they reached a brown-stone house, hidden away in a street of shops and warehouses, his mental balance was so admirable that he seemed to be in possession of enough information and brains to ruin half of the city, and he was no more concerned about the king, queen, deuce, and tray than if they had been discards that didn't fit his draw. He infused so much confidence and courage into his companion, that the old man went along the street, breathing war, like a decrepit hound on the scent of new blood.