‘Any one been here yet?’ demanded the lawyer.
‘Touchwood and Bowser’s articled clerk with notice of new trial in case of Green (in holy orders) v. Gripson—the bill-stealing case, you know, sir, that the country parson chose to go to a jury about.’
‘Ah, yes,’ rejoined Mr Wilkins, again tapping his front teeth with the pearl-handled knife, while a look of intense amusement overspread his face. ‘Wants another shot at the enemy, does he, the Rev. James Green! It was grand to see him in the witness-box, indignantly insisting on the fact that not one sixpence ever reached him in return for his promissory-note despatched per post, on the faith of Mr Gripson’s advertisement and fair words. Then some Mr Jenks, a total stranger, happens to give valuable consideration, at third or fourth hand, for the stamped paper with the clergyman’s signature, and, Rev. Green objecting to cash up, gets a fi. fa.—a neat contraction of fieri facias, which, as we lawyers know, is a term which directs an execution to be levied on the goods of a debtor, ha, ha!—has it backed in Wiltshire, and sells up every bed and chest of drawers in the vicarage. Mr Green brings an action against Gripson, who is comfortably out of the way, but retains me. We traverse everything, demur to everything, put in counter pleas and rebutters, change the venue, and play Old Gooseberry with the too confiding Green, whose counsel elects to be nonsuited. Now, like a Briton, he is ready for us again.’
Mr Wilkins laughed, and the juvenile clerk re-echoed the laugh. Sharp practice, such as that so lovingly narrated by the attorney, apparently for lack of a better audience, was congenial to the mind of this keen-witted young acolyte of Themis, with whom the proverbial distinction between Law and Equity seemed to be very clearly defined.
‘Nobody else called?’ asked Mr Wilkins.
‘Yes. Stout sporting-looking gent, who said he’d make shift, when I told him you had stepped out to the Master’s chambers, to come again to-morrow. Name of Prior,’ returned the youth.
‘Ah, Nat the bookmaker, wanting to know how near the wind he may sail without getting into the sweep-net of a criminal indictment,’ said the lawyer placidly. ‘Nothing else, hey?’
‘Only Mr Isaacs of Bowline Court, Thames Street, sent round to say he would look in between eleven and twelve,’ was the reply.
‘I’ll see him and any gentleman he may bring with him,’ rejoined Mr Wilkins, taking up the newspaper, as the office lad retired; but in five minutes returned, ushering in three gentlemen, whose hooked noses, full red lips, jet-black hair, and sloe-black eyes gave them a strong family resemblance. They were old acquaintances doubtless, for the greeting which they received from Mr Wilkins was a familiar one.
‘How do, Moss? How goes it, Braham, my buck? You’re all right, Isaacs, I can see for myself.’