The Free Lance.
“His good blade carves the casques of men , for the Free Lance
, thrusteth sure."
Vol. XVII.
He had sacrificed eight of the best years of his life for the
satisfaction of one coveted ambition—to become a lawyer, a
defender of the just, a disciple of the bar, a rock of justice. At
last he had tacked up his shingle on Fleet street, and, naturally
enough, he was expecting a host of clients all rushing towards this
one hope of grace, this monster of the law.
For six weary months he had journeyed to the court house in
the earnest endeavor to “scare up a scrape.” All in vain, nobody
was in need of cheap advice. After all this wide, wide world
business was not simply a college graduation' theme bill a stern
reality, and his daily'meals, his office rent, his incidentals, did not
decrease his debit column by a single farthing.
But one morning, for you know, dear reader, the morning
always comes, he was notified to appear in the county jail to serve
on a pauper’s case, His client was not a woe-begone sinner by
any means; neither was he one of those retrospective geniuses,
who, by his weazen voice, can make old women weep, and by his
deplorable condition can touch the heart of lady bountiful. In
just as many words as it took seconds he told our hero—for I
don’t know what else to call him—the story of his case: “I am
accused of murder. The details of the case are of no concern. I
have no witnesses to subpoena. If you want to take this case you
JANUARY, 1904.
THE OTHER SIDE.
No. 7.