“What’s your name?” said he to me kindly.
“William Russel, sir.”
“Do you know me, my little fellow?”
“Yes, sir, you’re Mr. Patterson, the great lawyer.”
“Ah, ah! they call me a great lawyer, do they! What else do they say?”
“That you’re the greatest orator in the country,” I replied—for what I had drank made me bold too.
“They do—I know they do, my little fellow—I believe, in fact, that I could have stood up in the Areopagus of old, in favor of human rights, and faced the best of them. Yes, sir, I too could have ‘fulmined over Greece.’ But we are not Grecians now—we are Pawnees.”
“Stop, stop, Mr. Pawnee,” called out some one from the crowd, “Short was to go, he is the tallest man.”
“The tallest man,” re-echoed Mr. Patterson, speaking in his natural tone. “The judge, sir, has already decided that by just legal construction, Short is short, no matter how long he is; and, if he claims to be long, sir, I can just inform him that Lord Bacon says ‘that tall men are like tall houses, the upper story is the worst furnished.’ ” Here, every eye was turned on Short, and there was a shout of laughter.
“If,” continued Mr. Patterson—and it was evident his potations were doing their work—“if it be true—I’ll just say this to you, sirs. Doctor Watts was a very small man; and, I repeat it for the benefit of all small men—