He wore a tattered black robe,
shortened at the knees to facilitate walking, a frizzled wig,
looking as if it had been dressed with a currycomb, a pair of black
breeches, well-patched with various colors; and gamaches of brown
leather, such as the habitans wore, completed his odd attire, and
formed the professional costume of Master Pothier dit Robin, the
travelling notary, one of that not unuseful order of itinerants of
the law which flourished under the old regime in New France.
Upon the table near him stood a black bottle, an empty trencher,
and a thick scatter of crumbs, showing that the old notary had
despatched a hearty breakfast before commencing his present work of
the pen.
A hairy knapsack lay open upon the table near his elbow, disclosing
some bundles of dirty papers tied up with red tape, a tattered
volume or two of the "Coutume de Paris," and little more than the
covers of an odd tome of Pothier, his great namesake and prime
authority in the law. Some linen, dirty and ragged as his law
papers, was crammed into his knapsack with them.
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