The old man's frail body quivered with grief. Two tears trickled slowly down the furrows of his face. "Come, come, now," said Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. "Brace up, old feller. What you want to do is to get a lawyer and go put the screws on George." "Is it really?" asked the old man, eagerly. "Certainly, it is," said Tom. "All right," cried the old man, with enthusiasm. "Tell me where to get one." He slid down from the railing and prepared to start off. Tom reflected. "Well," he said, finally, "I might do for one myself." "What," shouted the old man in a voice of admiration, "are you a lawyer as well as a reader?" "Well," said Tom again, "I might appear to advantage as one. All you need is a big front," he added, slowly. He was a profane young man. The old man seized him by the arm. "Come on, then," he cried, "and we'll go put the screws on George." Tom permitted himself to be dragged by the weak arms of his companion around a corner and along a side street. As they proceeded, he was internally bracing himself for a struggle, and putting large bales of self-assurance around where they would be likely to obstruct the advance of discovery and defeat. By the time they reached a brown-stone house, hidden away in a street of shops and warehouses, his mental balance was so admirable that he seemed to be in possession of enough information and brains to ruin half of the city, and he was no more concerned about the king, queen, deuce, and tray than if they had been discards that didn't fit his draw. He infused so much confidence and courage into his companion, that the old man went along the street, breathing war, like a decrepit hound on the scent of new blood. He ambled up the steps of the brown-stone house as if he were charging earthworks. He unlocked the door and they passed along a dark hallway. In a rear room they found a man seated at table engaged with a very late breakfast. He had a diamond in his shirt front and a bit of egg on his cuff. "George," said the old man in a fierce voice that came from his aged throat with a sound like the crackle of burning twigs, "here's my lawyer, Mr. er--ah--Smith, and we want to know what you did with the draft that was sent on 25th June." The old man delivered the words as if each one was a musket shot. George's coffee spilled softly upon the tablecover, and his fingers worked convulsively upon a slice of bread. He turned a white, astonished face toward the old man and the intrepid Thomas. The latter, straight and tall, with a highly legal air, stood at the old man's side. His glowing eyes were fixed upon the face of the man at the table. They seemed like two little detective cameras taking pictures of the other man's thoughts. "Father, what d--do you mean," faltered George, totally unable to withstand the two cameras and the highly legal air.