CHAPTER XL

MR. DOCKET

AN old Butler of our acquaintance used to say that his master had three sorts of malt liquor—ale, table, and lamentable; and so there may be said to be three sorts of lawyers, able, unable, and lamentable, the latter of course being the black sheep of the profession, of whom it is fortunate there is so small a proportion compared to the white. There is no greater blessing to a country—no more creditable character anywhere—than a peace-making, peace-loving lawyer, one who sacrifices his own interests rather than involve his neighbours in costs and litigation. Unfortunately such men are seldom appreciated until the parties get into the hands of the opposite sort. It may appear strange, but we believe our oft-lauded friends, the railways, have had a good deal to do in repressing the old spirit of litigation and making parties keep the peace together. People fly away from the scene of action, and it is wonderful how insignificant the obnoxious Brown or Jones becomes at the end of a railway ride. Locomotion, with the short costs of the court, which generally entail a loss even on a winner, prevent people fighting about nothing. The Scotch still contend about trifles with the sort of hereditary animosity that made old Lord Eldon inquire whether certain combatants in his court were “first cousins or neighbours in the country?” but the Scotch will soon learn that they can spend their money more profitably in excursion trains and summer trips. Still, as there will always be indifferently honest people in the world, so there will always be lamentable lawyers to aid in carrying out their endeavours. Respectable men will not have anything to do with questionable deeds, so the parties must either take the unable half-wits who will do anything they are told, or men of the lamentable order, whose employment bespeaks the character of the transaction. “Tell me your attorney, and I’ll tell you what you are,” has almost grown into an adage. So with the bar; dirty men for dirty cases. When that worthy successor of Dan Hakefield—Mr. Verde—begins twiddling his eyeglass, everybody knows there is trickery astir.

Mr. Docket, or Dicky Docket as he was generally called, was one of the dubious order, a legal tool instead of an adviser. He thought it was an honour to be employed by the Duke, who wrote him familiar letters, sealed with great butter-pat-like seals, which of course Dicky was always proud to show or to rehearse the contents of. Though Dicky had not received the Duke’s missive announcing the probable visit of the banker and telling him what to do, when Mr. Goldspink arrived at Dicky’s dingy office in the little town of Rackenford, yet he knew quite enough of affairs to entertain the question and endeavour to probe the cautious man’s mission. Of course Mr. Goldspink did not open out with his desire to purchase the Garlandale estate, but, harping on the heavy debt due to the bank, he drew one or two other places casually into notice, declaring that though he had a perfect horror of land, which he believed would go down in value, and would rather any one else should purchase than him; yet sooner than things should continue as they then were, he would take a place at a fair price—not a fancy price, but a fair price —such as would give him proper interest for his money; but the places he named being all in strict settlement, and of course as immoveable as rocks, Mr. Docket stopped the unprofitable dialogue as soon as he could by declaring that they were so. The banker then, as he thought most skilfully, worked Garlandale round; but Mr. Docket saw through the hollow device, and immediately proceeded to enhance its attractions, declaring that the Duchess was so attached to it, that he hardly thought the Duke would venture to sell it: at all events, that his Grace would require a very long price; and though they had two stiff glasses of brandy and water together at the Swan Inn, in the course of which the banker brandished the Duke’s passbook and Docket expatiated on his Grace’s riches, they could not carry the negotiation any further, and our man of money returned pretty much as he came.

Next day, however, brought the following letter from the Duke, explaining matters and telling him what to do. Thus it ran—

“Dear Docket,—That drivelling old dotard from Mayfield has been over pestering about his little account, and wanting to purchase one of our detached places, and not being able to get rid of the old Philistine I referred him to you, so please, if he comes, squeeze him severely as to price, for, as you know, he has no mercy upon me or on any one else whom he gets into his clutches. He is an ungrateful old curmudgeon, for I sent him a haunch of venison only the other day, and his son used to hunt with my hounds till he found he was safer on foot than on horseback, besides which the bank always charges me full interest up to the day, so that the obligation is really on my side instead of his. However, hear what he has to say, and if you can make a good bargain with him do, and let me know the result, but I don’t want to be troubled with all the pros and cons.—Yours truly,

Tergiversation.”

One of the peculiarities of the present day is that there is no dealing for anything without a haggle. Whatever a person asks it is always inferred that he means to take less, and forthwith the purchaser applies himself to running it down, and this whether or not he considers the article worth the money asked or not. Some do it on principle, some for pleasure, but nine people out of ten do it and think nothing of the waste of time. To say that our Banker did it would be wholly superfluous, but he had better have dispensed with the ceremony, for each time he demurred Mr. Docket added a trifle to the price, till seeing the money mounting up, Mr. Goldspink was obliged to close at a hundred or two more than he might at first have had the estate for. And here leaving the transaction for the present, let us turn to the more invigorating pursuits of country life.