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"Down in one of the tenements of Gridley," pursued Prescott, rising and leaning one elbow upon the corner of the top of the lawyer's roll-top desk, "is a young man named Peters. He is a mill hand who has been away from his work for weeks on account of illness. Dr. Carter has been attending him, probably without charging much if any fee.
"My boy," he said, "go along and God go with you!" Bristol tore his hand from the lawyer's clasp and hurried away. But at the Trelawny he did not find the Kilgours' name on the directory board. The elevator man, the janitor, the manager, told him the same story with the same indifference. The Kilgours had sold their possessions and had removed they had left no address.
The two West Pointers were soon in the lawyer's office. Mr. Griffin was disengaged, and saw the young men at once. This attorney was rather a new-comer in Gridley. Dick and Greg met him for the first time. Prescott rather liked the man's appearance. "Do you want the whole affair discussed before your friend, Mr. Prescott?" demanded Griffin. "By all means, sir," Dick responded.
Those creditors of his became desperately pressing in their demands; almost every morning's post brought him a lawyer's letter; and, however prostrate he might feel, he was obliged to sit up for an hour or so in the day, resting his feverish head upon his hand, while he wrote diplomatic letters for the temporary pacification of impatient attorneys.
Spurge, blinking at his visitor in the pale light of a guttering candle, shook his head. "I'll come, guv'nor," he said. "Of course. I'll come and I'll trust to luck to get away, and it don't matter a deal if the luck's agen me I've done a month in Norcaster before today, and it ain't half a bad rest-cure, if you only take it that way. But guv'nor that old lawyer's making a mistake!
Horace was not naturally a short-tempered youth, but there was something in the tone of this self-satisfied lawyer's clerk which raised his dander. "Not much of a berth, is it?" pursued the catechist. "No," said Horace. "Not a very chirrupy screw, so I'm told eh?" This was rather too much.
The colonel, who regretted to be compelled to dislike anybody, turned upon Gresham a dissatisfied eye. "Oh, play the game or stay out of it!" he advised. "I'll see you at my lawyer's to-morrow at eleven. Come with me a minute, Johnny. I want you to meet a friend of mine who has a big real estate deal on tap, and he may not go back on our train to-night."
But the lawyer's tones lost none of their animation, as he went on to say: "The bottle, from which your glasses are to be replenished for this final draught, he has himself provided.
"Yes, I'll leave it out awhile, I reckon, unless the weather changes," replied Christopher, in answer to the lawyer's inquiry. "Well, it promises fair enough," returned Carraway pleasantly. "They tell me, by the way, that the yellow, sun-cured leaf is coming into favour in the market. You don't try that, eh?"
The brothers seized their letter with undiluted joy; it was addressed in a bold, masculine hand, a lawyer's undoubtedly a striking though perhaps not conclusive proof that Aunt Patience had winged her flight. They were a little bit disappointed that it had not black edges they had always imagined that the "blow" would come with black edges.
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