“Well, he didn’t come much of a crowner this morning,” said Mr. Topott deferentially, “in spite of Bow-wow and in spite of you. I don’t know where he obtained his information, but I thought the whole thing was most artistic. And if the fellow can cross-examine in that manner, heaven knows what he can do when he gets up on his hind legs to address the jury. I tell you, Weekes, I am frightened to death of this young fellow. He’s deep.” “I tell you what it is, my boy,” said Mr. Weekes tartly, “you stayed up an hour longer than you ought to have done at the Betterton last night, waiting for four aces which never turned up.” At an adjoining table the barrister of elephantine proportions, who had expressed his determination “to stand the fellow a bottle,” was entertaining a select coterie of his learned friends. In his inn he was justly celebrated as a trencherman among a society which had always been famous for its prowess at the board. He rejoiced in the name of “Jumbo;” and, although his practice was small, only his adipose tissue imposed the bounds to his good nature. In every way he was designed by nature to be one of her most popular efforts. “Who’s Northcote?” was a question that was circulating freely. None seemed to know. “Never heard of him. Never seen his name.” “Well known in the police-courts, I believe.” “It’s time he gave them up. His talents call him elsewhere.” “It was rather poor form, I must say, trying to score off Bow-wow.” “It is a mistake a young man is likely to make.” “Speaking for myself, I thought Bow-wow was asking for it. It is the time-honored story of the old-established firm of the bench and the Treasury. Once a Treasury counsel always a Treasury counsel.” “Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy.” “He was altogether wrong with the police.” “I agree. He ought to have been handled more firmly.” “Bow-wow furnishes a good example of a lath painted to look like iron. I should like to have seen him face to face with Cunningham, or old Tottie Turnbull. There would have been trouble for one.” “For m’lud, I’ll lay a pony. This young sportsman is quite above the ordinary. He is going a very long way.” “It is too early to say. We see so many geese with the plumage of the swan in this profession.” “Name! name!” cried the table. “I expect when it is all reckoned up,” said Jumbo, when order had been restored, “my young pal, Jem Smith, is the son of ‘Pot’ Northcote who went the northern circuit for years.” “If that is so, Jum, he is already a better man than his father. Pot died a recorder.” “I hope the young un will open his mug for an hour this afternoon. He’s got the finest mask on him for a young un I ever saw.” “Weekes might easily have to play jack-in-the-box all the afternoon.” “In that case poor old Bow-wow will have to do a frightful amount of scratching at his leg.” “But the case is too dead to be worth it.”