Mr. Naylor, the company's counsel, declared that young Mr. Pippitt was one of the best witnesses he had ever seen. His demeanor was excellent, his facts irrefragable, his memory neither unnaturally bad nor suspiciously good. The last letter he produced from his father inclosed a draft for three hundred pounds, and announced the writer's return on a business visit by the next mail but one. By that mail, a gentleman of the name of Pippitt had crossed the ocean, and had, presumably, taken the train on landing, and met his death in the accident. Mr. Naylor felt his case was so bad that he almost charged young Mr. Pippitt with direct perjury, and twisted up a note to Mr. Budge, who was on the other side, offering four thousand pounds and costs. Mr. Budge answered that he must consult his client, and that he would wait till the end of the plaintiff's evidence. Mr. Naylor nodded, and redoubled his insinuations of an unscrupulous conspiracy. Mr. Budge rose to re-examine with a smile on his face. Mr. Pippitt said he had no reason to anticipate a falling-off in his father's business; it was well established: nor in his father's liberality; his father had always led him to suppose that he would provide for him. Yes, there was a strong--yes, a very strong, affection between them. Here Mr. Pippitt's voice faltered; the judge nodded sympathetically; and the foreman of the jury wrote "£5,000?" on a slip of paper and passed it round the box. That artistic falter produced another effect also. The gangways of the court were crowded with the usual throng of idle folk, assembled to hear Mr. Naylor's cross-examination; and as the plaintiff bore witness to the bonds of love which bound him to his father there came from the recesses of the crowd a voice, which said: "That there is! Let me through! Who's saying my boy doesn't love his old father?" The group of people parted; and an elderly man came to the front, advancing in an uncertain, apologetic manner. "Silence! silence!" cried the usher, a world of pained indignation in his accents. "You mustn't disturb the court, sir!" thundered the judge. "I came to speak a word for Joe. I was passing, and dropped in, and, seeing Joe, I made bold to speak. He's been a good son, has Joe." The judge looked appealingly at counsel. "Who is Joe, and who is this person?" And getting no answer, he turned to the plaintiff. Young Mr. Pippitt met his eye with an uneasy smile. "I haven't the least idea, my lord," he said. The judge looked at the writ. "Your name is Joseph?" he asked. "No, it--yes--that is, certainly, my lord." "You don't seem very sure, sir," remarked the judge; and he added, addressing the intruder, "Who are you, sir?" The old man seemed in a nervous and broken-down condition; but he stammered out, "He's my son, my son, my lord." "It's a lie," cried young Mr. Pippitt. "Hold your tongue till you're asked to speak," said his lordship snappishly. "I want to hear what this man has to say."