“Also,” proceeded the graceless youth in the clear and concise way that won the instant attention of juries and Judges, “also, our profession is no longer a profession but a business.”  His humorous eyes twinkled merrily.  “It divides into two parts—­teaching capitalists how to loot without being caught, and teaching them how to get off if by chance they have been caught.  There are other branches of the profession, but they’re not lucrative, so we do not practice them.  Do I make myself clear?”

Mr. Lockyer again shook his head and sighed.

“I am not an Utopian,” continued young Norman.  “Law and custom permit—­not to say sanctify—­our sort of business.  So—­I do my best.  But I shall not conceal from you that it’s distasteful to me.  I wish to get out of it.  I shall get out as soon as I’ve made enough capital to assure me the income I have and need.  Naturally, I wish to gather in the necessary amount as speedily as possible.”

“Fred, my boy, I regret that you take such low views of our noble profession.”

“Yes—­as a profession it is noble.  But not as a practice. My regret is that it invites and compels such low views.”

“You will look at these things more—­more mellowly when you are older.”

“I doubt if I’ll ever rise very high in the art of self-deception,” replied Norman.  “If I’d had any bent that way I’d not have got so far so quickly.”

It was a boastful remark—­of a kind he, and other similar young men, have the habit of making.  But from him it did not sound boastful—­simply a frank and timely expression of an indisputable truth, which indeed it was.  Once more Mr. Lockyer sighed.  “I see you are incorrigible,” said he.

“I have not acted without reflection,” said Norman.

And Lockyer knew that to persist was simply to endanger his dignity.  “I am getting old,” said he.  “Indeed, I am old.  I have gotten into the habit of leaning on you, my boy.  I can’t consent to your going, hard though you make it for us to keep you.  I shall try to persuade our colleagues to accept your terms.”

Norman showed neither appreciation nor triumph.  He merely bowed slightly.  And so the matter was settled.  Instead of moving into the suite of offices in the Mills Building on which he had taken an option, young Norman remained where he had been toiling for twelve years.

After this specimen of Norman’s quality, no one will be surprised to learn that in figure he was one of those solidly built men of medium height who look as if they were made to sustain and to deliver shocks, to bear up easily under heavy burdens; or that his head thickly covered with fairish hair, was hatchet-shaped with the helve or face suggesting that while it could and would cleave any obstacle, it would wear a merry if somewhat sardonic smile the while.  No one had ever seen Norman angry, though a few persevering offenders against what he regarded as his rights had