A SPIDER IN HIS DEN
"Thar's a sucker born every minit, an' two ter ketch him."--_Uncle
Terry._
There are lawyers and lawyers. Not all are legalized pickpockets, and
not all are imbued with the sole and noble purpose of serving the ends
of justice, whether that service lines their pockets or not. Some, and I
may say many of them, contrive to reverse matters and to make justice
serve them, and if the ways of justice do not conspire to that end, so
much the worse for the blind goddess. Modern justice oft-times means the
longest purse and the keenest ability to evade the law, and while an
unprincipled lawyer will not exactly throttle the mythological maiden
who holds the scales, he will, if necessary, so befog her every sense
with evasions, subterfuges, and non-pertinent issues that she might just
as well have been born deaf and dumb, and without feeling, as well as
blind, for all the use she has of those senses. Not only does modern law
service frequently resolve itself into a contest of unscrupulous
cunning, but modern law-making is occasionally shaped to serve the ends
of the profession, instead of justice. While the majority of lawyers are
not rascals in name, a good many are at heart, and with the most, when
it comes to the question of justice and a small fee and injustice and a
big one,--well, draw your own conclusions, all ye who have been fools
enough to seek recourse at law.
Lawyers seem to thrive on the passions and vanities of mankind, and many
of them are looking for fools who have money and a grievance. The
time-worn sarcasm that "After man came woman, and she has been after him
ever since" would be more to the point if "lawyer" were substituted for
"woman."
But the world is full of fools who thirst for revenge in law, or seem
anxious to find some one to dupe them in other ways and always succeed;
so Uncle Terry was more than half right when he said, "Thar's a sucker
born every minit, an' two ter ketch him."
Of all the smooth, elusive vultures lurking in the shadow of the temple
of justice, or perching upon it, Nicholas Frye, or "Old Nick," as many
called him, was the most cunning. Nor did his looks belie the
comparison, for he had deep-set, shifty, yellow-gray eyes, a hooked
nose, and his thin locks, dyed jet black, formed a ring about his bald
poll. He walked with a stoop, as if scanning the ground for evidence or
clues, and to add to his marked individuality, when he talked he rubbed
his hands together as though washing them with invisible soap. It was
not from any sense of cleanliness that he did this, for they had many
times been soiled willingly in the most nefarious transactions. A client
was to him a victim to be kept in waiting; exasperated in regard to his
grievances by all possible means; deluded as to his chances of success
in quest of justice; deceived as to its cost; and robbed in every way
known to an astute lawyer. He had been the legal adviser of John Nason
for many years, and when that busy merchant came to him on behalf of his
son, who wanted to find a position for Albert Page, Frye readily
promised to give him employment. It was not because he needed him, but
because he saw at once that through some friendship for this young sprig
of the law, as he intuitively considered Albert to be, he could
strengthen his hold upon the father and obtain some secrets that might
eventually be used to rob him. In plain words, he thought to use this
young country lawyer as a spy. He knew that John Nason felt a keen
interest in his only son Frank, and that was another reason for
employing that son's friend. He knew also that Frank was given a liberal
allowance, spent it rapidly, and most likely would be getting into
various scrapes needing a lawyer's efforts to rescue him, and so he
would have further pickings in that direction. These were two good
reasons for his ostensible acts of kindness, and so he at once sent for
Page to come.
When, the morning after his arrival in Boston, Albert presented himself
at Frye's office, he found that lawyer busy reading his mail.
"Take a seat, sir," said Frye politely, after Albert had introduced
himself, "and excuse me until I go through my letters." And then, for a
long half hour, Albert was left to study the bare office walls and
peculiar looks of his future employer. Finally Frye turned to him and
asked rather abruptly: "Well, Mr. Page, what do you know about law?" at
the same time scanning him as if expecting to see hayseed adhering to
his garments.
"Not much, perhaps," replied Albert modestly, uncertain of his ground.
"I have been in practice only a year at Sandgate, and the few people
there do not have much use for a lawyer."
"Then why didn't you stir 'em up a little and bring 'em to see they
needed your services?" was Frye's next query. "You will never succeed as
a lawyer unless you make business. Did you bring your sheepskin with
you?"
"No, sir," answered Page, "I didn't think it necessary, after what I
wrote you. I have it in my trunk."
"Well, bring it to-morrow," said Frye. "I make it a rule to take nothing
for granted and have everything in writing;" and then he added with a
searching look, as if he was about to utter a crusher, "What is your
idea of a lawyer's chief object in existence?"
Page was a little nonplussed. "Oh, I suppose," he replied slowly, "to
see that laws are properly executed and justice done."
Frye looked at him a full minute without making any further comment,
while a sardonic grin gradually drew his lips apart, showing a full set
of false teeth, and then, as he began rubbing his hands together, he
said:
"It's evident, young man, you have much to learn in your profession.
Laws are made for lawyers, and are the tools of our trade. If the world
does not see fit to use those tools, it is our business to make them,
and as for justice, that is an allegory, useful in addressing a jury,
but considered a fable by the judge. Laws are useful to oppose other
laws with, and various decisions are only good in so far as they help
your case and hinder your opponent's.
"You seem an honest-appearing young man, which is well so far as our
relations go, but no further. I want an assistant, and one who is ready
and willing to do just as I direct and to ask no questions. Do you think
you can fill the bill?"
"I can try," replied Albert quietly, "and as soon as I get used to your
methods of procedure here I think I can succeed."
He was a little startled at the peculiar character of his employer, and
in a way slightly disgusted, but he was not in a position to cavil or
feel squeamish over apparent lack of honesty, and resolved at once to
ignore it.
"What do you wish me to do?" he continued after a moment. "I will do the
best I can for you and am ready to go to work now."
"You are to be at the office at eight o'clock sharp," replied Frye,
"take one hour for lunch, and remain till six." Then he added by way of
a spur to his slave's fidelity, "I am paying you seventy-five dollars a
month on the recommend of an important client of mine who wanted to
humor his son. It was your good luck to have this son's friendship, as
he belongs to a wealthy family. He is a spendthrift, of course, but that
is no matter, and all the better for us. Take my advice, and cultivate
him all you can. It may be the means of bringing us more business. What
I say to you I shall expect you to consider a professional secret and I
hope you will make good use of your time when with this young friend of
yours, and heed well what I have said to you."
That ended the interview and Albert was set at work copying legal
documents and at the same time trying to reconcile himself to his new
surroundings. That night he wrote to Alice: "I have hired out to a most
unmitigated old scoundrel, and yet one of the sharpest lawyers I ever
met. He assured me I must lay aside my conscience if I mean to succeed
and hinted that he might use me later on as a sort of spy upon Frank, I
imagine. He employs a stenographer of uncertain age who comes in and
takes dictation and does her work outside. The only stupid thing he has
said was to warn me not to flirt with her."
Then he wrote to his friend Frank, telling him where he was located,
thanking him for his assistance, and begging him to call at an early
date. After that he smoked for an hour in glum silence. His room was
small and cheerless, and, in comparison with his home quarters, a mere
den. But it was a question of saving, and the luxury of space, even, he
could not afford. There is no more lonesome place in the wide world than
a great city to one born and bred amid the freedom of the wide fields
and extended woodlands as Albert had been, and now that he was shut in
by brick walls all day, and imprisoned in one small room at night, with
a solitary window opening on an area devoted to ash barrels and garbage,
it made him homesick. He was a dreamer by nature and loved the music of
running brooks, the rustling of winds in the forest, and the song of
birds. The grand old mountains that surrounded Sandgate had been the
delight of his boyhood, and to fish in the clear streams that tumbled
down through narrow gorges and wound amid wide meadows, or in the
lily-dotted mill pond, his pastime. He had the artist's nature in him
also, and loved dearly to sketch a pretty bit of natural scenery, a
cascade in the brook or a shady grotto in the woods. He loved books,
flowers, music, green meadows, shady woods, and fields white with
daisies. He had been reared among kind-hearted, honest, God-fearing
people who seldom locked their doors at night and who believed in and
lived by the Golden Rule. The selfish and distrustful life of a great
city, with its arrogance and wealth and vanity of display, was not akin
to him, and to put himself at the beck and call of a mercenary and
utterly unscrupulous old villain, as he believed Frye to be, was gall
and bitterness. For two weeks he worked patiently, hoping each day that
the one and only friend the city held for him would call, passing his
evenings, as he wrote Alice, "in reading, smoking, and hating myself a
little, and Frye a good deal."
He had hesitated to write Frank in the first place, disliking to ask
favors, but it could not be helped, and now he began to feel that his
friend meant to ignore him. This humiliating conclusion was growing to a
certainty, and Albert feeling more homesick than ever, when one
afternoon, while he was as usual hard at work in Frye's office, Frank
came in.
"Pray excuse me, old man," remarked that youth briskly, after the first
greetings, "for not calling sooner, but I was off on my yacht about the
time you came, and then I ran down to New York to take in the cup races.
You see, I'm so busy I do not get any time to myself. I want you to come
over to the club and lunch with me to-day, and we can talk matters
over."
"You will kindly excuse me," replied Albert. "I have a lot of work cut
out, and am only allowed one hour for lunch. Can't you come around to my
room to-night and have a smoke-talk?"
"Maybe," replied Frank, "and we can go around to the club later. You
will meet some good fellows there, and we always make up a game of
draw--small limit, you know. Say, old man," he added interestedly, "how
do you like Frye?"
As that worthy happened to be out just then, the two friends had a good
chance to exchange opinions. Albert's is already known, but, for
reasons, he did not care to express it to Frank at this time.
"Frye is a shrewd lawyer, I presume," he answered, "and so far I have no
fault to find. He takes good care to see I have work enough, but that is
what I am hired for, and I have been rather lonesome, and glad of it."
Then to change the subject he added: "I want to thank you once more,
Frank, for getting me the place. Things were in a bad way at home, and I
needed it."
"You may thank dad, not me," replied Frank; "I was just going off on a
trip when your letter came, and I turned the matter over to him. Frye's
his attorney, you see."
"Are you personally well acquainted with Mr. Frye?" asked Albert, having
an object in mind.
"No, not at all, except by sight," was the answer. "I believe he is
considered a very sharp lawyer, and almost invariably wins his cases.
Dad says he has won out many times when the law was all against him, and
is not over-scrupulous how he does it. They say he is rich, and a
skinflint. He always reminds me of a hungry buzzard."
Albert thought of Burns' apt cynicism just then, and wished that Frye
might for one moment see himself as others saw him. He felt tempted to
tell Frank just what Frye had said, and what his opinion of him was, but
wisely kept it to himself. Had he been a woman, it is doubtful if he
would have shown so much discretion, and not every man would.
"Well, I must be going," said Frank, at last. "I've got a date for the
mat., this aft., so ta-ta. I'll call round some eve., at your room, and
take you up to the club."
When his friend had departed, Albert resumed his rather monotonous
copying the gist of a lot of decisions bearing upon a case that Frye had
pending just then, and when he went out to lunch, it was, as usual,
alone, and to a cheap restaurant.
"It's nice to have a rich father, a yacht, plenty of money and nothing
to do but spend it," he said to himself ruefully that night, as he sat
in his cheerless room smoking and dwelling upon the picture of a gay
life as disclosed by his friend. "But we are not all born to fortune,
and perhaps, after all, I might be worse off,"--which, to say the least,
is the best way to look at it.