And a few minutes later my clerk saw my visitor safely off the premises. I admit that I was slightly annoyed at the term "wire." It is true that his firm's name had not appeared—at any rate, recently—in my fee-book, but that was no reason why he should suggest that I was constantly absent from my chambers. I really pitied Messrs. Clogs, Judas and Friars for having a clerk with so little tact, and such a small stock of experience.
On the following morning, when I was standing at the door of the Carey Street Robing Room, considering whether I should assume my forensic costume, or enter the Court as a layman, I was accosted by the same individual, who told me "that we were third on the list."
"So you will be wanted almost at once, Sir," said he.
"Well, I shall be able to come," I replied, "as, strange to say, I have no business before their Lordships to-day."
"Chiefly chamber practice, I suppose, Sir?"
"Quite so," I returned, looking him steadily in the face. "I mean to-day."
I will not tell a wearisome story of how I had to hang about the Court until the interval for luncheon, and longer. I will hurry to the point when I entered the witness-box. To my surprise and secret satisfaction there was quite a stir when my name was called out. The Silks in the front row smiled, and my colleagues the juniors tittered. Even his Lordship looked up with an expression of pleasant anticipation. I was duly sworn, and gave my name.
"Now, Sir," said the Counsel for our side, "tell me. How long have you known anything about office messengers?"
I considered for a moment. As a Member of the Bar (although I had not been asked for my profession—no doubt that was sufficiently well known) I desired to set an example. I wished to show what a witness should be. I desired to appear as a model worthy of close and universal imitation.
"I have seen office messengers in offices for many years—as long as I can remember."