Mr. Bonnie Doon, carried away by his own powers of description, waved his hand dramatically at the old leather couch against the side wall, in which Weary Willy was supposed to be reclining.

“Can’t you see ’em?” he declaimed.  “The haughty Bibby with nose in air, preceding the great dame of fashion, enters the pink room and comes to attention, ‘This way, madam!’ he declaims, and Mrs. Witherspoon sweeps across the threshold.”  Bonnie Doon, picking up an imaginary skirt, waddled round Mr. Tutt and approached the couch.  Suddenly he started back.

“Oh, la, la!” he half shrieked, dancing about.  “There is a man in the bed!”

Both Tutts stared hard at the couch as if fully expecting to see the form of Weary Willy thereon.  Bonnie Doon had a way of making things appear very vivid.

“And sure enough,” he concluded, “there underneath the coverlid in the middle of the bed was a huddled heap with a stubby beard projecting like Excalibur from a pink silk lake!”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Tutt.  “But may I ask what this is all about?”

“Why, your new case, to be sure,” grinned Bonnie, who, had he been employed by any other firm, might have run the risk of being regarded as an ambulance chaser.  “To make a long and tragic story short, they sent for the watchman, whistled for a policeman, telephoned for the hurry-up wagon, and haled the sleeper away to prison—­where he is now, waiting to be tried.”

“Tried!” ejaculated Mr. Tutt.  “What for?”

“For crime, to be sure,” answered Mr. Doon.

“What crime?”

“I don’t know.  They’ll find one, of course.”

Mr. Tutt swiftly lowered his legs from the desk and brought his fist down upon it with a bang.

“Outrageous!  What was I just telling you, Tutt!” he cried, a flush coming into his wrinkled face.  “This poor man is a victim of the overzealousness which the officers of the law exhibit in protecting the privileges and property of the rich.  If John De Puyster Hepplewhite fell asleep in somebody’s vestibule the policeman on post would send him home in a cab; but if a hungry tramp does the same thing he runs him in.  If John De Puyster Hepplewhite should be arrested for some crime they would let him out on bail; while the tramp is imprisoned for weeks awaiting trial, though under the law he is presumed to be innocent.  Is he presumed to be innocent?  Not much!  He is presumed to be guilty, otherwise he would not be there.  But what is he presumed to be guilty of?  That’s what I want to know!  Just because this poor man—­hungry, thirsty and weary—­happened to select a bed belonging to John De Puyster Hepplewhite to lie on he is thrown into prison, indicted by a grand jury, and tried for felony!  Ye gods!  ‘Sweet land of liberty!’”

“Well, he hasn’t been tried yet,” replied Bonnie Doon.  “If you feel that way about it why don’t you defend him?”

“I will!” shouted Mr. Tutt, springing to his feet.  “I’ll defend him and acquit him!”