Picture.

It may be remembered that the gift of my grateful if eccentric client had been put in the box-room at Justinian Gardens. There the presentment of the donkey languidly watching jaded villagers reposed, amidst the possibly congenial surroundings of broken perambulators, superannuated folding-doors, and half-forgotten wide-awake hats. I rather regretted the fate of the picture, as it seemed to me that it might have served as a not invaluable advertisement. As a large proportion of the forensic world knows, I not infrequently during the Yuletide season entertain some of my friends at the Bar, and I should have been pleased to have been able to point to the canvas as a sort of testimonial. However, the painting had disappeared, and there was nothing more to be said about it.

I am reminded by this reference to my vacation entertainments, that it was at one of "these feasts of reason and flows of soul" (as my learned and distinguished friend Appleblossom, Q.C., is kind enough to call them) that my fortunes underwent a change for the better. The inhabitants of Justinian Gardens are accustomed to do things very well. When there is a ball, the number of vehicles (always with one horse apiece, and sometimes with a pair) is quite considerable. On such occasions a stranger might imagine that the Gardens had the advantage of a chronic cab-stand. At 97 (which I think I may describe as our show-house) there is a butler, and there are few at Justinian Gardens who cannot boast of a "buttons." I do not secure the services of a man-retainer myself, and am consequently not quite in the fashion. However, when I entertain, I do my best to be worthy of the prestige of my neighbours, and put forth all my strength in making my house an object of interest. The walls of my modest dwelling-place are adorned with several mementoes of my not-altogether-common-place career. For instance, I have had my commission as a Lieutenant of Volunteers (I served for many years in the Bishop's Own, and was graciously permitted by Her Majesty to retire with my rank) glazed and framed, and have treated the pasteboard distinctions I won at school in a similar fashion. When I purpose entertaining my friends at the Bar, I have these gratifying landmarks in my life's history polished up by an individual known in my household as "the handy man." This person (towards whom I entertain a friendly regard), for a certain sum an hour undertakes to do anything I require. I believe that he can paint a house, build a conservatory, cut down a forest, and reconstruct an aquarium with equal facility. But it is only right to say that I make this statement on the faith of his guarantor—the gentleman who was good enough to procure for me the advantage of his services—and cannot speak from personal knowledge. So far I have only had the opportunity of testing his capabilities in window-cleaning and the dusting of works of art. In performing these domestic duties he shows great energy, and even daring. He seems to delight in standing on window-ledges and the outer edges of flights of stairs. I have been given to understand that he glories in these displays of hardihood, as they remind him of the days and nights when he acted as a rather prominent member of the Fire Brigade.

"Mr. Wilkins," I said, on my departure for the Temple, "I shall esteem it a favour if you will be so good as to employ your leisure to-day in repainting the waterbutts, sweeping the kitchen chimney, putting glass in the conservatory, regilding the mirror in the study, and, if you have time, dusting my testimonial."

"Certainly, Sir," replied my valued acquaintance, and before I had closed the hall door, the sounds of the rumbling sticks told me that he had already commenced to remove the superfluous soot from the culinary smoke-hole.

I had rather an arduous day at Pump-Handle Court. I had quite an accumulation of circulars, and a consent brief that required very careful attention. The latter was not endorsed with my name, but I saw to it on behalf of a colleague. After I had spent some hours in the little frequented (during the vacation) realms of the Temple, I returned to Justinian Gardens, which I need scarcely tell an experienced cabman is in the neighbourhood of that continually rising locality—Earl's Court. The door was opened by Mr. Wilkins in person, who anticipated the turning of the proprietorial latch-key.

"I am sorry to say, Sir," said my trusted employé, "that I have had an accident. While I was dusting the military enlistment card——"

"You mean my commission?"

"I do, Sir. It came down with a run. You see, Sir, you have had him rather heavily framed. Unfortunately, Sir, when I passed the polish brush over him the nail did not hold, and it gave suddenly. The picture made a nasty mark on the wall, and smashed up when he got to the flooring. I would have reframed him, but all the shops close early on a Thursday, and I can get no glass."

"Well, what have you done?" I asked, in a tone of some annoyance, for I pride myself on my commission, and am proud of showing it to my friends.

"Well, Sir, I went up to the box-room to see if I could find anything that would do, and have looked up an affair that I think will meet with your approval."

By this time I had reached the place where the wall was damaged. The spot was covered by a picture.

"I did my best, Sir. I washed the canvas with soap and water, and put the polishing brush over the frame. Of course the subject ain't worth much, but for a stop-gap it isn't bad. Now is it?"

I then found that Mr. Wilkins had hidden the faulty hall paper with the picture that had been presented to me by the gentleman who had raised a claim to the throne of the Celestial Empire. Secretly pleased that I could now have an opportunity of referring to the gratitude of my client to my learned and distinguished friend, Appleblossom, Q.C., who had promised to dine with me that evening, I readily accepted the apologies of the penitent Wilkins.

"I will put it allright to-morrow, Sir," said my distressed employé. "I will get some glass, fix up your enlistment card, and have it done before I rebuild the pantry and whitewash the ceiling of the bath-room."

Satisfied with the promise I thought no more of the contretemps until after dinner, when my attention was directed to it by Appleblossom, Q.C., who had made himself vastly agreeable after the ladies had retired and left us to discuss the chestnuts and the port.

"Hullo, Briefless," he exclaimed; "where did you get that Old Boots?"

I told my story of the grateful client, and young Bands, who I fancy is thinking of reading in my chambers, regarded me (I venture to believe) with increased respect.

"Bless me, you have a treasure!" continued Appleblossom, Q.C., who seemed wrapt in admiration. "That is a genuine Old Boots. You can always tell him from Young Boots by the manipulation of his animal's ears. Look at those, Sir! Splendid! Why, who could paint a donkey like that? By Jove, Briefless, you are in luck! You ought to make a fortune out of it at Christies!"

"Why, is it very valuable?" I asked. "I am not much of an art connoisseur, and I frankly confess I know very little of Old Shoes."

"Old Boots, Sir!" cried Appleblossom, Q.C. "Why I thought all the world knew Old Boots! One of the grandest painters of the eighteenth century! He got that particular delicacy of touch which you can trace in that donkey's ears by never commencing to paint his animals until he