"You struck so near to the truth," said the young man, "that you made me bleed."
"Well, this is a consummate kind of folly. You must feed well; build yourself up; go away for Christmas; take a rest. Future greatness cannot be allowed to play ducks and drakes with its chances."
"I swear to you, Whitcomb, the weight of a feather would make me throw up the bar."
"Impossible! That voice, that presence, that imagination, that extraordinary dynamic quality—in other words, your genie, leaves you no choice."
"I swear to you, Whitcomb, if it were not for my countrified old mother, who has worked her fingers to the bone to provide an education for me, I would never go into court any more."
"Ah, well, I shall continue to send you briefs all the same. I cannot recall another man who has got a start such as yours, and I shall be astounded if through a whim you show yourself unworthy of your good fortune. Here is a check for 'the monkey' you won of me at lunch yesterday."
"Five hundred pounds! I don't remember anything of the circumstances."
"I laid five hundred to fifty against your getting a verdict."
"When?"
"At lunch yesterday."
"You must not take any notice of that. I was very excited. I am afraid I was not myself."
"Why afraid? The money is yours."
"I don't want it; I won't have it."
Mr. Whitcomb had thrust the check in the hands of the advocate, who tore it up immediately.
