(_By A. Briefless, Junior_)
“Here is something for you, sir,” said a sharp-looking youth, suddenly
thrusting into my hand a document.
I quietly put the paper into my pocket without comment (I had no wish
to bandy words with the process-server), and reflected that some
half-forgotten tailor, or too-long-neglected hatter, was a person of no
real delicacy of feeling.
“And will you see to the matter at once?” continued the sharp-looking
youth, “as they can’t wait.”
“Certainly,” I replied, with a dignity which I intended should suggest
that I had a perfectly fabulous account at Coutts’s. My account at the
celebrated banking firm referred to _is_ perfectly fabulous.
“All right, sir. I suppose we shall see you in the morning.”
The youth disappeared, and I journeyed home. As I walked along the
Thames Embankment I pondered over the alterations made in our law by
the Judicature Acts.
“When I was a younger man,” I murmured to myself, “a copy of a writ,
when considered entirely without prejudice, was rather a handsome
instrument than otherwise. The direct message from the Sovereign, for
instance, used to be very far from ungratifying, although perhaps it
would have been better had the greeting been joined to a matter a
little less embarrassing, say, than an unsatisfied claim for the value
of certain shirts. But nowadays the neat crisp document of the olden
time seems to be abandoned for a far more bulky paper--for the packet I
have in my pocket!”
However, I threw off my cares, and thought no more of the affair
until the next morning, when, putting on my overcoat, I discovered,
to my intense astonishment, to my overwhelming joy, that what I had
believed to be a writ was actually a brief. I had to sit down on
the hall-chair for five minutes to compose myself. My emotion was
perfectly painful--it was my first, my maiden brief! The news spread
like wildfire through the household, and the distant strains of “Rule,
Britannia!” were heard coming from the nursery.
[Illustration]
There was but one thing to be done, and I did it. I hurriedly collected
all the law-books I possess (Shearwood’s “Abridgment of Real Property,”
an odd volume of Stephen’s “Commentaries,” and an early edition of
“The Comic Blackstone”), jumped into a hansom, and rattled down to
Pump-Handle Court. Arrived there, I handed my brief to my clerk (the
sharp-looking youth who had given me the paper turned out to be my
clerk), and instructed him to put it in a prominent position in his
own room, so that my client, when he arrived, might see it, and
conclude that I had so many matters just then in hand that I had not
had as yet time to look into his case, which was waiting its turn
for consideration with numerous others. I was ashamed to give these
instructions, but reflected that it was important, having regard to my
professional prospects, that my expected visitor should be kept as long
as possible in ignorance of the fact that he was my solitary employer.
“All right, sir,” said my clerk, with a facial gesture which I regret
to say savoured of a wink. “He will be here by eleven.”
I now entered my own room. It was rather in disorder. I share my
chambers with an intimate friend, and as I am very often away, he
sometimes uses my _sanctum_ (entirely with my consent) as a receptacle
for empty packing-cases, old cigar-boxes, superfluous window-curtains,
and worn-out boots. With the assistance of my clerk, who followed
me in, I soon set things to rights, putting on the month-indicator
from October to March, filling the inkstand with copying fluid, and
removing somebody’s pot-hat from the brows of my bust of the late Lord
Chancellor Brougham.
“There, sir, I think that will do now,” said my clerk, with a look of
satisfaction, and he left me seated at my desk turning over some dusty
brief paper which I had found knocking about in one of the drawers.
My room is a semi-subterranean apartment in a circular tower. I have
two small casements looking out upon some gardens, but as I occupy the
basement, I can only see the ankles of the passers-by, and am myself
free from observation save when some more than usually unruly urchin
brings his head level with mine, and makes faces at me through the
window.
I repeat I was turning over the dusty brief-paper, and toying with Mr.
Shearwood’s very excellent “Abridgment,” when the door was thrown open
and my clerk announced, “Someone to see you, sir.”
“You will pardon me,” I said, without looking up, consulting in the
meantime the hand-book before me with knitted brows, “but I am engaged
for a few moments. I will attend to you directly.”
“Oh, certainly, sir,” replied the new-comer, in the most deferential
tone possible; and he took a seat.
I jotted down the incidents of Borough English, frowned as if engaged
in deep thought, and then smilingly turned to my visitor, and asked him
how I could be of service to him.
“I want you to look into this case, sir,” he began, with a timidity
that was as unexpected as it was gratifying--his nervousness gave me
confidence.
“By all means,” I responded heartily, dipping a pen into the ink, and
putting a fresh sheet of brief-paper over the page I had already used
for the incidents of Borough English and a freehand sketch of a British
Grenadier, “I shall be glad to hear all about it.”
“I must apologise for intruding upon you, knowing how busy you are, but
I thought you would be interested in what I have to place before you.”
“Pray do not apologise,” I hastened to say; and then added, with a
little laugh, “I certainly have taken you out of your turn, but then
this is our first transaction. I hope it will not be the last.”
“I hope so, too,” replied my client, fervently. “If you will allow me,
I will often place things like this before you. I should have come to
you earlier only so many gentlemen object to seeing me.”
“Dear me!” I replied, a little surprised. “I suppose some men don’t
care to jeopardise their professional reputation by failure. And now,
with your permission, I will look into your case.”
“It is here, sir,” he answered, opening a rather large portfolio. “You
will notice that these are very beautiful engravings.”
“Certainly,” I returned, making a note on the paper before me; “as you
say, most beautiful. No doubt of very considerable value.”
“I am glad you like them, sir. They are forced to be got rid of at an
enormous sacrifice.”
“Indeed!” I ejaculated, continuing my notes.
“Yes, sir. They are being sold at something less than cost-price.”
“Really!” And again I jotted down the particulars. Then I said, to show
that I comprehended the affair at a glance, “I suppose there has been a
dispute about the copyright?”
“No, sir, that’s all right.”
“Ah, to be sure--then there has been a breach of contract?” But finding
that this also was not the case, I said, with hearty _bonhomie_, “Well,
my dear sir, as I have made two bad guesses, perhaps you had better
tell me what I can do for you.”
My client coughed deferentially, and then produced a paper.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but would you mind signing this?”