two yellow-spotted cigars, chewing the end of one with much apparent relish and pushing the other at me.  His two friends remained respectfully standing.  I guessed at what was coming, and braced myself by refusing the cigar,—­not a great piece of self-denial, by the way.  But a case meant much to me then, and I did seriously regret that O’Meara was not a possible client.  At any rate, my sympathy with Farrar in the late episode put him out of the question.

O’Meara cleared his throat and began gingerly to undo the handkerchief on his hand.  Then he brought his fist down on the table so that the ink started from the stand and his cheeks shook with the effort.

“I’ll make him pay for this!” he shouted, with an oath.

The other gentlemen nodded their approval, while I put the inkstand in a place of safety.

“You’re a pretty bright young man, Mr. Crocker,” he went on, a look of cunning coming into his little eyes, “but I guess you ain’t had too many cases to object to a big one.”

“Did you come here to tell me that?” I asked.

He looked me over queerly, and evidently decided that I meant no effrontery.

“I came here to get your opinion,” he said, holding up a swollen hand, “but I want to tell you first that I ought to get ten thousand, not a cent less.  That scoundrelly young upstart—­”

“If you want my opinion,” I replied, trying to speak slowly, “it is that Mr. Farrar ought to get ten thousand dollars.  And I think that would be only a moderate reward.”

I did not feel equal to pushing him into the street, as Farrar had done, and I have now but a vague notion of what he said and how he got there.  But I remember that half an hour afterwards a man congratulated me openly in the bank.

That night I found a new friend, although at the time I thought Farrar’s visit to me the accomplishment of a perfunctory courtesy to a man who had refused to take a case against him.  It was very characteristic of Farrar not to mention this until he rose to go.  About half-past eight he sauntered in upon me, placing his hat precisely on the rack, and we talked until ten, which is to say that I talked and he commented.  His observations were apt, if a trifle caustic, and it is needless to add that I found them entertaining.  As he was leaving he held out his hand.

“I hear that O’Meara called on you to-day,” he said diffidently.

“Yes,” I answered, smiling, “I was sorry not to have been able to take his case.”

I sat up for an hour or more, trying to arrive at some conclusion about Farrar, but at length I gave it up.  His visit had in it something impulsive which I could not reconcile with his manner.  He surely owed me nothing for refusing a case against him, and must have known that my motives for so doing were not personal.  But if I did not understand him, I liked him decidedly from that night forward, and I hoped that his advances had sprung from some