Marguerite Verne

Excerpt

AT THE NORTHWEST.

The scene is changed; and we find ourselves transported beyond a doubt to the far-famed city of Winnipeg—that emporium of wealth, enterprise and industry which arose from its prairie surroundings as by the magic of the enchanter's wand.

It is a bright, cheerful day in leafy June, and as one jogs leisurely adown Main street, there are to be seen many happy smiling faces.

But we are bent upon important business, and yield not to the more leisurely inclined side of our nature. A large four-story building is our destination. Its door posts, windows and available space are decorated with the inevitable shingle that sooner or later ushers the professional into the notice of his victims. And this building was not alone in such style of decoration.

"Dear me, I believe every other man in this place is a lawyer! Sakes alive—it's worse than being among a nest of hornets." Such was the exclamation of an elderly lady who had recently arrived, and was out taking a survey of the town.

And the old lady was not far astray, as Winnipeg has proportionately more of the legal fraternity than any other city of the Dominion.

But to our subject. Having arrived at the end of a spacious corridor we stop directly opposite a door bearing a placard—the letters are of gilt upon a black ground:

N. H. SHARPLEY,
Attorney-at-Law,
Notary Public, etc.

A medium-sized man is seated at the desk busily engaged over a lengthy looking document which he has just received from the young copyist at the further end of the office.

"All right, Ned, you are at liberty for the next hour. Wait: You can in the meantime run up for the ink," said Mr. Sharpley, Attorney-at-Law, in an impatient tone, as though he wished to enjoy the delightful communion of his own thoughts.

And while the scion of the law was wending his steps towards the Hudson Bay Company store—that mammoth collection of goods from every clime—the father, yea rather grandfather, of variety stores— the disciple of Coke and Blackstone takes out of his breast pocket a letter, which, judging from its crumpled state, must have claimed the reader's attention more than once.

"Five thousand dollars—not bad, by Jove," muttered Mr. Sharpley, in firm set tones, then began whistling the air accompanying the words:

"Never kick a man when he's going down the hill."

Before going further let us take a survey at Nicholas Sharpley, Esq., Attorney-at-Law, as he sits with his right arm resting on the desk and his left supporting his very important head. He is about thirty-five years of age, or perhaps less. His face is long and his chin sharp, so that his name is no misnomer. A pair of glittering, steel-like eyes, play a prominent part in the expression of his face. A sinister smile plays hide-and-seek around the thin, pale lips, while the movement betray a flexibility of mind that is not nattering to the possessor.

There is about the man a striking combination of Uriah Heap and Mr. Pecksniff; which, to an honest-minded man, rendered him intolerable....