"Oh! Quibble, eh! I've heard of him. But look here, my young friend, there is no reason why honest men should cut one another's throats. Tell my friend Quibble I was here before ye and keep this for yourself." And with that he peeled a twenty-dollar bill from the top of a heavy roll that he produced from his pocket and placed it within my palm. "Very good," said I. "It may cost me dear if Quibble hears of it, but a man must live, and I work at starvation wages." I placed the bill in my breast pocket and made way for him to enter the store, which he did without more ado. Why this busy gentleman should gratuitously present me with twenty dollars did not at the moment occur to me. I continued on my way northward, pondering upon the question, and passed the street upon which the police court was located and Counsellor Gottlieb had his office. The thought came into my mind that here was the very person to shed light upon the subject and I turned the corner and opened the door. Gottlieb was in his customary position with his feet elevated upon the table before him. "Well," he said, "I didn't expect you back so soon." "I've come for free advice this time," I answered. "Oh," he grunted. "Well, in that case perhaps you won't get it." Somehow I had taken a shine to the fellow, for all his robbery of poor Toby, and I admired his quickness of perception and readiness of speech. Perhaps he too felt not unkindly toward me. At any rate I told him my story. "Now," says I, "what d'ye make of it?" Gottlieb laughed. "Was he a fat little turkey with gray eyes?" he inquired. "The same," I replied. "Then it was Tom Kelly," he answered. "On his daily still hunt for the maimed, the halt and the blind. You say the chap had been run over by the stage? Well, Tom'll take his case on a contingent fee--fifty per cent. to Tom and fifty per cent. to the client of all that comes of it--bring an action against the stage line and recover heavy damages. Oh, it's terrible to think what that poor injured young man will suffer. To-day he may feel quite well, but to-morrow he will have all kinds of pains in his head and eyes, his spine will ache, he will experience symptoms of a nervous breakdown. He will retire to bed and not emerge for six months, and when he does he'll be a hopeless and helpless cripple for life. Tom is an artist, he is, in his own line. They tell me he made sixty thousand last year out of his accident practice alone. Why, the case he gave you twenty to keep out of may net him five thousand dollars." "If I'd known that it would have cost him fifty!" I said, feeling that an unjust advantage had been taken of me. "Twenty is the regular rate," answered Gottlieb. "There are too many chances to make it worth much more merely to get the other fellow out of the way. Sometimes, though, I've paid as high as fifteen hundred for a case." "Fifteen hundred!" exclaimed I.