Having arrived at the end of a spacious corridor
we stop directly opposite a door bearing a placard--the letters are
of gilt upon a black ground:
N. H. SHARPLEY,
Attorney-at-Law,
Notary Public, etc.
A medium-sized man is seated at the desk busily engaged over a
lengthy looking document which he has just received from the young
copyist at the further end of the office.
"All right, Ned, you are at liberty for the next hour. Wait: You
can in the meantime run up for the ink," said Mr. Sharpley,
Attorney-at-Law, in an impatient tone, as though he wished to enjoy
the delightful communion of his own thoughts.
And while the scion of the law was wending his steps towards the
Hudson Bay Company store--that mammoth collection of goods from
every clime--the father, yea rather grandfather, of variety stores--
the disciple of Coke and Blackstone takes out of his breast pocket a
letter, which, judging from its crumpled state, must have claimed
the reader's attention more than once.
"Five thousand dollars--not bad, by Jove," muttered Mr. Sharpley, in
firm set tones, then began whistling the air accompanying the words:
"Never kick a man when he's going down the hill.
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