“Hello, Hughie,” he said, with his air of having nothing to do. “Grinding it out? Where's Watling?”
“Isn't he in his office?”
“No.”
“Well, what can we do for you?” I asked.
Ralph grinned.
“Perhaps I'll tell you when you're a little older. You're too young.” And he sank down into Larry Weed's chair, his long legs protruding on the other side of the table. “It's a matter of taxes. Some time ago I found out that Dickinson and Tallant and others I could mention were paying a good deal less on their city property than we are. We don't propose to do it any more—that's all.”
“How can Mr. Watling help you?” I inquired.
“Well, I don't mind giving you a few tips about your profession, Hughie. I'm going to get Watling to fix it up with the City Hall gang. Old Lord doesn't like it, I'll admit, and when I told him we had been contributing to the city long enough, that I proposed swinging into line with other property holders, he began to blubber about disgrace and what my grandfather would say if he were alive. Well, he isn't alive. A good deal of water has flowed under the bridges since his day. It's a mere matter of business, of getting your respectable firm to retain a City Hall attorney to fix it up with the assessor.”
“How about the penitentiary?” I ventured, not too seriously.
“I shan't go to the penitentiary, neither will Watling. What I do is to pay a lawyer's fee. There isn't anything criminal in that, is there?”