"Been before old PROSER, Queen's Bench Division, to-day," he proceeds. "Do you ever sit in Court?"
I reluctantly confess that I have not made an habitual point of doing so.
"Ah," he says, finding that I can't contradict him as to what did really happen in old PROSER's Court to-day; "you should have been there just now. Had BLOWHARD, the great Q.C., opposed to me. But, bless you, he couldn't do anything to speak of against my arguments. PROSER really hardly would listen to him once or twice. Made BLOWHARD quite lose his temper, I assure you."
"So he lost his case, too, I suppose?" I remark, humorously.
"Um," replies FIBBINS, sinking into despondency, "not exactly. PROSER didn't quite like to decide against BLOWHARD, you know; so he—so he—er—decided for him, in fact. Of course we appeal. It won't," goes on FIBBINS, more cheerfully, "do BLOWHARD's clients a bit of good. Only run their bill up. I'm safe to win before the Court of Appeal. Lord Justice GRILL a first-rate lawyer—sure to reverse old PROSER. I can," he ends with conscious pride, "twist GRILL round my finger, so to speak."
The idea of twisting a Lord Justice round one's finger impresses me still more with DICK FIBBINS's legal genius. How lucky I am to have made his acquaintance! Feel impelled to ask, as I do rather nervously, not knowing if a bitter disappointment does not await me.
"Do you—er—take legal pupils ever?"
I feel that I've put it in a way that sounds like asking him if he indulges in drink. But FIBBINS evidently not offended. He answers briskly, with engaging candour.
"Well, to tell you the truth, though I've often been asked to—quite pestered about it, in fact—I've never done so hitherto. The Solicitors don't like it quite—makes 'em think one is wasting the time which ought to be given to their briefs on one's own pups—I mean pupils."
Perhaps, after all, FIBBINS will dash my hopes (of becoming his "pup!" Query, isn't the word infra dig.—or merely "pleasantly colloquial?") to the ground.