go very well in a revue. Valerie contributes the life, Winchester the drive, André the dash, and I the low comedy, as a sort of confidential groom-of-the-chambers, fat, forgetful, superfluous and spending half my life asking people to 'spell it' over the telephone. Which reminds me, I've left the receiver off ....
SIR ANDREW Plague was in Chambers.
That the Temple was empty and the Law Courts closed did not matter to him. The man was above custom. He went as he pleased.
A desultory fire of snorts and grunts of indignation, audible in the clerks' room and greatly relished by the two 'juniors,' suggested that their master was perusing Case Law, while the occasional crash of a volume declared the K.C.'s contempt for a dictum which should not have been printed and might have been left unsaid.
After a while the objections suddenly ceased, and from the succeeding silence a listener might have assumed that Sir Andrew was asleep. The clerks knew better, and fell to whispering or, if they had occasion to move, did so a-tiptoe. Sir Andrew was not asleep: he was using his brain.
By dint of supreme concentration he was at once shaping, ordering, compressing and expressing his conclusions regarding a question of law, and doing it about thirty times as swiftly and twice as skilfully as could anyone else alive.
There was nothing traditional about his pose. His huge arms folded upon the table, his massive head bowed, his great red face buried in his sleeve, the man might have been dead. From a tray by his side a cigar sent up a slender, swaying column of smoke. Before him an old chronometer measured the moments with the deliberate dignity of a forgotten age....
Presently the thinker lifted up his head. For a moment he stared at the chronometer. Then he sat back in his chair and blew through his nose. His work was done.
Sir Andrew stretched out his hand and smote with great violence the hand-bell upon his table. The instrument, which had survived outrageous treatment for nearly two months, followed the example of its predecessors and broke. With an oath, Sir Andrew flung it into a corner.
"'Streuf," said one of the 'juniors' in the adjoining room. "If 'e ain't done in that bell. An' the place where I got it, they said I could stan' on it."
"Yes, but they didn't say 'e could," snapped his superior, hurrying out of the office.
A moment later he stood before his master.
"Destroy that bell," said Sir Andrew, jerking his head at the corner. "And sack the fool who bought it. Oh, and return that brief, and tell 'em that Lincoln's Inn 's the other side of the street."
Mr. Junket swallowed.
"I did remark, sir," he said, "that it was a point of Chancery law, but they said they knew that, and they’d rather 'ave your opinion than any in Lincoln's Inn."
"Lying hounds," replied Sir Andrew. "What they mean is, every one else is away."
"I don't think it's that, sir," cautiously ventured the clerk. "There's plenty the other side would give an opinion. But Mr. Firmer 's attendin' to this 'imself, an' you know what 'e thinks of you, sir," he added proudly.
"I don't!" shouted Sir Andrew. "I haven't the faintest idea. Send me the shorthand clerk. If they like to waste their money, that's their look-out."
"Very good, sir."
Mr. Junket retired precipitately, and a moment later the shorthand writer appeared. As he closed the door, Sir Andrew began to dictate....
" My opinion is valueless. I know little of Chancery doctrines, and, happily, nothing of those appointed to administer them. It is a principle of law that ... (here followed a masterly 'opinion,' dealing root and branch with the matter and setting intricacy by the ears) ... In these circumstances, provided that the Court before which the case would ordinarily come has discretion sufficient to enable it to distinguish right from wrong, your client will not be permitted to proceed with the development of his property, so long as the lord of the manor, however base his motive, requests
SIR ANDREW Plague was in Chambers.
That the Temple was empty and the Law Courts closed did not matter to him. The man was above custom. He went as he pleased.
A desultory fire of snorts and grunts of indignation, audible in the clerks' room and greatly relished by the two 'juniors,' suggested that their master was perusing Case Law, while the occasional crash of a volume declared the K.C.'s contempt for a dictum which should not have been printed and might have been left unsaid.
After a while the objections suddenly ceased, and from the succeeding silence a listener might have assumed that Sir Andrew was asleep. The clerks knew better, and fell to whispering or, if they had occasion to move, did so a-tiptoe. Sir Andrew was not asleep: he was using his brain.
By dint of supreme concentration he was at once shaping, ordering, compressing and expressing his conclusions regarding a question of law, and doing it about thirty times as swiftly and twice as skilfully as could anyone else alive.
There was nothing traditional about his pose. His huge arms folded upon the table, his massive head bowed, his great red face buried in his sleeve, the man might have been dead. From a tray by his side a cigar sent up a slender, swaying column of smoke. Before him an old chronometer measured the moments with the deliberate dignity of a forgotten age....
Presently the thinker lifted up his head. For a moment he stared at the chronometer. Then he sat back in his chair and blew through his nose. His work was done.
Sir Andrew stretched out his hand and smote with great violence the hand-bell upon his table. The instrument, which had survived outrageous treatment for nearly two months, followed the example of its predecessors and broke. With an oath, Sir Andrew flung it into a corner.
"'Streuf," said one of the 'juniors' in the adjoining room. "If 'e ain't done in that bell. An' the place where I got it, they said I could stan' on it."
"Yes, but they didn't say 'e could," snapped his superior, hurrying out of the office.
A moment later he stood before his master.
"Destroy that bell," said Sir Andrew, jerking his head at the corner. "And sack the fool who bought it. Oh, and return that brief, and tell 'em that Lincoln's Inn 's the other side of the street."
Mr. Junket swallowed.
"I did remark, sir," he said, "that it was a point of Chancery law, but they said they knew that, and they’d rather 'ave your opinion than any in Lincoln's Inn."
"Lying hounds," replied Sir Andrew. "What they mean is, every one else is away."
"I don't think it's that, sir," cautiously ventured the clerk. "There's plenty the other side would give an opinion. But Mr. Firmer 's attendin' to this 'imself, an' you know what 'e thinks of you, sir," he added proudly.
"I don't!" shouted Sir Andrew. "I haven't the faintest idea. Send me the shorthand clerk. If they like to waste their money, that's their look-out."
"Very good, sir."
Mr. Junket retired precipitately, and a moment later the shorthand writer appeared. As he closed the door, Sir Andrew began to dictate....
" My opinion is valueless. I know little of Chancery doctrines, and, happily, nothing of those appointed to administer them. It is a principle of law that ... (here followed a masterly 'opinion,' dealing root and branch with the matter and setting intricacy by the ears) ... In these circumstances, provided that the Court before which the case would ordinarily come has discretion sufficient to enable it to distinguish right from wrong, your client will not be permitted to proceed with the development of his property, so long as the lord of the manor, however base his motive, requests
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