Henry Poundstone, Junior, proved to be the sole inhabitant of one rather bare office in the Cardigan Block.  Buck had fully resolved to give him a retainer of a thousand dollars, or even more, if he asked for it, but after one look at Henry he cut the appropriation to two hundred and fifty dollars.  Young Mr. Poundstone was blonde and frail, with large round spectacles, rabbit teeth, and the swiftly receding chin of the terrapin.  Moreover, he was in such a flutter of anticipation over the arrival of his client that Buck deduced two things—­to wit, that the Mayor had telephoned Henry he was apt to have a client, and that as a result of this miracle, Henry was in no fit state to discuss the sordid subject of fees and retainers.  Ergo, Mr. Ogilvy decided to obviate such discussion now or in the future.  He handed Henry a check for two hundred and fifty dollars, which he wrote out on the spot, and with his bright winning smile remarked:  “Now, Mr. Poundstone, we will proceed to business.  That retainer isn’t a large one, I admit, but neither is the job I have for you to-day.  Later, if need of your services on a larger scale should develop, we shall of course expect to make a new arrangement whereby you will receive the customary retainer of all of our corporation attorneys I trust that is quite satisfactory.”

“Eminently so,” gasped the young disciple of Blackstone.

“Very well, then; let us proceed to business.”  Buck removed from a small leather bag a bale of legal-looking documents.  “I have here,” he announced, “agreements from landowners along the proposed right of way of the N. C. O. to give to that company, on demand, within one year from date, satisfactory deeds covering rights of way which are minutely described in the said agreements.  I wish these deeds prepared for signing and recording at the earliest possible moment.”

“You shall have them at this time to-morrow,” Henry promised.

The head of Henry Poundstone, Junior, was held high for the first time since he had flung forth his modest shingle to the breezes of Sequoia six months before, and there was an unaccustomed gleam of importance in his pale eyes as he rushed into big father’s office in the city hall.

“By jinks, Dad!” he exulted.  “I’ve hooked a fish at last—­and he’s a whopper.”

“Omit the cheers, my boy.  Remember I sent that fish to you,” his father answered with a bland and indulgent smile.  “What are you doing for Ogilvy, and how large a retainer did he give you?”

“I’m making out deeds to his rights of way.  Ordinarily it’s about a fifty-dollar job, but without waiting to discuss finances he handed me out two hundred and fifty dollars.  Why, Dad, that’s more than you make in a month from your job as Mayor.”

“Well, that isn’t a bad retainer.  It’s an opening wedge.  However, it would be mere chicken-feed in San Francisco.”

“Read this,” Henry urged, and thrust a yellow telegraph-form under the Mayor’s nose.  The latter adjusted his glasses and read: