I had occasion, in the May of that year, to make a somewhat long business trip to Chicago, and on my return, much to my surprise, I found Farrar awaiting me in the railroad station.  He smiled his wonted fraction by way of greeting, stopped to buy a newspaper, and finally leading me to his buggy, turned and drove out of town.  I was completely mystified at such an unusual proceeding.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“I shan’t bother you long,” he said; “I simply wanted the chance to talk to you before you got to your office.  I have a Philadelphia client, a Mr. Cooke, of whom you may have heard me speak.  Since you have been away the railroad has brought suit against him.  The row is about the lands west of the Washita, on Copper Rise.  It’s the devil if he loses, for the ground is worth the dollar bills to cover it.  I telegraphed, and he got here yesterday.  He wants a lawyer, and I mentioned you.”

There came over me then in a flash a comprehension of Farrar which I had failed to grasp before.  But I was quite overcome at his suggestion.

“Isn’t it rather a big deal to risk me on?” I said.  “Better go to Chicago and get Parks.  He’s an expert in that sort of thing.”  I am afraid my expostulation was weak.

“I merely spoke of you,” replied Farrar, coolly,—­“and he has gone around to your office.  He knows about Parks, and if he wants him he’ll probably take him.  It all depends upon how you strike Cooke whether you get the case or not.  I have never told you about him,” he added with some hesitation; “he’s a trifle queer, but a good fellow at the bottom.  I should hate to see him lose his land.”

“How is the railroad mixed up in it?” I asked.

“I don’t know much about law, but it would seem as if they had a pretty strong case,” he answered.  He went on to tell me what he knew of the matter in his clean, pithy sentences, often brutally cynical, as though he had not a spark of interest in any of it.  Mr. Cooke’s claim to the land came from a maternal great-uncle, long since deceased, who had been a settler in these regions.  The railroad answered that they had bought the land with other properties from the man, also deceased, to whom the old gentleman was alleged to have sold it.  Incidentally I learned something of Mr. Cooke’s maternal ancestry.

We drove back to the office with some concern on my part at the prospect of so large a case.  Sunning himself on the board steps, I saw for the first time Mr. Farquhar Fenelon Cooke.  He was dressed out in broad gaiters and bright tweeds, like an English tourist, and his face might have belonged to Dagon, idol of the Philistines.  A silver snaffle on a heavy leather watch guard which connected the pockets of his corduroy waistcoat, together with a huge gold stirrup in his Ascot tie, sufficiently proclaimed his tastes.  But I found myself continually returning to the countenance, and I still think I could have modelled a better face out of putty.  The mouth was rather small, thick-tipped, and put in at an odd angle; the brown eyes were large, and from their habit of looking up at one lent to the round face an incongruous solemnity.  But withal there was a perceptible acumen about the man which was puzzling in the extreme.