Sam McAlister walked into my office yesterday and laid down a handful of
silver on my desk.
“There you are,” he said, “and I am very much obliged to you for the
loan.”
For the moment I could not recollect having lent Sam any money; though I
should be glad to do so at any time if I thought he wanted it. Sam is a
boy I like. He is an undergraduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and
has the makings of a man in him, though he is not good at passing
examinations and has never figured in an honours list. Some day, when
he takes his degree, he is to come into my office and be made into a
lawyer. His father, the Dean, is an old friend of mine.