Watson, Q.C., afterwards Baron Watson, advised me to take a long rest; but as he was not a doctor of medicine, I did not act upon his advice. A long rest would have killed me much faster than any amount of work, so I worked with judgment; and although my business went on increasing to an extent that would not have pleased Dr. Addison, I suffered no evil effects, but seemed to get through it with more ease than ever, and was soon in a fair way to achieve the greatest goal of human endeavour--a comfortable independence. The reason of getting through so much work was that I had to reject a great deal, and, of course, had my choice of the best, not only as to work, but as to clients. To use a sporting phrase, I got the best "mounts," and therefore was at the top of the record in wins. Good cases are easy--they do not need winning; they will do their own work if you only leave them alone. Bad cases require all your attention; they want much propping, and your only chance is that, if you cannot win, your opponent may _lose_. But nothing in the chatter about the Bar is more erroneous than the talk of the tremendous incomes of counsel. A man is never estimated at his true worth in this world, certainly not a barrister, actor, physician, or writer; and as for incomes, no one can estimate his neighbour's except the Income-tax Commissioners. They get pretty near sometimes, however, without knowing it. One morning I was riding in the Park when old Sam Lewis, the great money-lender, a man for whom I had much esteem, and about whom I will relate a little story presently, came alongside. We were on friendly and even familiar terms, although I never borrowed any money of him in my life. "Why, Mr. Hawkins," said he, "you seem to be in almost everything. What a fortune you must be piling up!" "Not so big as you might think," I replied. "Why, how many," he rejoined, "are making as much as you? A good many are doing twenty thousand a year, I dare say, but--" Here I checked his curiosity by asking if he had ever considered what twenty thousand a year meant. He never had. "Then I will tell you, Lewis. _You_ may make it in a day, but to us it means five hundred golden sovereigns every week in the working year!" It somewhat startled him, I could see, and it effected my object without giving offence. What did it matter to Sam Lewis what my income was? "There are men who make it," he answered. "Some men have made it," I said; "and I know some who make more, but will never own to it, ask who may." I may say I liked Sam Lewis, and having told the story of the Queen's Counsel who _borrowed_ my money in so dishonest a manner, I will tell one of Sam, the professional money-lender.