somehow, cigars taken from a show case—I turned the book over and idly looked at its title. I remember very well that it was Reeves' History of the English Law. It struck me as rather odd that a boy behind a cigar stand should be reading such a book. It was not a book that law students, in my state, at any rate, generally read. I know that I never read it (through) and probably never shall read it, although it is, of course, a wise and ancient book. I asked him why he read it.
"Why," he said, "I'm studying law!"
As I lighted a cigar, I looked at the boy. He was tall and overgrown, and thin with his overgrowth, with spare wrists that thrust themselves out of frayed cuffs. His face was sallow, and he was not good to look upon. His clothes were worn bare to the threads. He had every appearance of being poor, almost hungry. I fancy I disliked him.
"When do you expect to be admitted?" I asked casually.
"Oh," he replied, blithely enough, "in two or three years. Then I go into politics."
This, I have said, was in 1891. If anything impressed me, it was the hopelessness of it all.
