tudes of cases since then, that I've forgotten the precise details.
But you write out your own Opinion--not to-day; tomorrow will do. Then I'll
see what it's like. Now let's go a trot down the Strand."

Another circumstance that strikes me as remarkable, is the frequency with
which I hear the Impressive Clerk (in the little room next to mine)
requesting persons who have called to "settle up that other little matter."
Then the strange voice laughs, and says--"Oh, your Governor can wait." "No,
he can't,"--it's the Clerk who says this--"it's been going on for three
years, now." "Well," chimes in the unknown, "let it go a bit longer.
When'll your Governor have settled those pleadings?" "When your people
settle about the five guineas, and not before," replies the Impressive
Clerk in his best Parliamentary debating style. Then follows a long
wrangle, not on law, but on finance, which never--as far as I can
judge--ends in the Clerk getting his way, and his money.

[Illustration: "Looks like a Prime Minister in reduced circumstances."]

Astonishing event happens. A real live new brief comes in! Impressive
Clerk--who looks like a Prime Minister in reduced circumstances--brings it
to FIBBINS when I am in the room. More impressive than ever. "From ROGERS,
in Chancery Lane--an excellent firm, Sir," he says. Poor FIBBINS tries,
ineffectually, to conceal his delight, and his eye turns instinctively to
the place where the fee is marked.

"Six guas" (legal slang for guineas) "for an Opinion, not bad," he
comments, rubbing his hands. FIBBINS dusts a corner of his desk, and lays
it down there.

_I_ am given this precious brief, and am asked to write a "draft Opinion"
about it! "Just to try your hand," says FIBBINS, who does not wish me to be
conceited. "Then I'll write my own afterwards," he adds.

I make a very elaborate commentary, quoting from innumerable parallel cases
in English, American, and Roman law, and, after giving it to DICK FIBBINS
to read, I don't see it again.

But, a few afternoons later, when Impressive Clerk happens to be out, a
knock comes. Nobody in. At last, go myself (_Query_--infra dig.?) and open
door.

"Here!" says a juvenile, who apparently mistakes me for the Clerk, and
rudely chucks some papers to me, which hit me in the chest, "give these to
your Governor. What a time you take answering a knock! Having a nap, hay?
Take care old FIBBINS don't catch you at it, that's all!" Juvenile
disappears do