IN WHICH MR. ROUNDJACKET FLOURISHES HIS RULER.

Roundjacket was Mr. Rushton’s clerk his “ancient clerk” though the gentleman was not old. The reader has heard the lawyer say as much. Behold Mr. Roundjacket now, with his short, crisp hair, his cynical, yet authoritative face, his tight pantaloons, and his spotless shirt bosom seated on his tall stool, and gesticulating persuasively. He brandishes a ruler in his right hand, his left holds a bundle of manuscript; he recites.

Mr. Rushton’s entrance does not attract his attention; he continues to brandish his ruler and to repeat his poem.

Mr. Rushton bestows an irate kick upon the leg of the stool.

“Hey!” says Roundjacket, turning his head.

“You are very busy, I see,” replies Mr. Rushton, with his cynical smile, “don’t let me interrupt you. No doubt perusing that great poem of yours, on the ‘Certiorari.’”

“Yes,” says Mr. Roundjacket, running his fingers through his hair, and causing it to stand erect, “I pride myself on this passage. Just listen”

“I’d see your poem sunk first; yes, sir! burned exterminated. I would see it in Chancery!” cried the lawyer, in the height of his wrath.

Mr. Roundjacket’s hand fell.

“No no!” he said, with a reproachful expression, “you wouldn’t be so cruel, Judge!”

“I would!” said Mr. Rushton, with a snap.

“In Chancery?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Mr. Rushton.”

“Sir?”

“Are you in earnest?”

“I am, sir.”

“You distinctly state that you would see my poem consigned to ”

“Chancery, sir.”

“Before you would listen to it?”

“Yes, sir!”

Roundjacket gazed for a moment at the lawyer in a way which expressed volumes. Then slowly rubbing his nose:

“Well, sir, you are more unchristian than I supposed but go on! Some day you’ll write a poem, and I’ll handle it without gloves. Don’t expect any mercy.”

“When I write any of your versified stuff, called poetry, I give you leave to handle it in any way you choose,” said the Judge, as we may call him, following the example of Mr. Roundjacket. “Poetry is a thing for school-boys and bread and butter Misses, who fancy themselves in love not for men!”

Roundjacket groaned.

“There you are,” he said, “with your heretical doctrines doctrines which are astonishing in a man of your sense. You prefer law to poetry divine poetry!” cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler.

“Roundjacket,” said Mr. Rushton.

“Judge?”

“Don’t be a ninny.”

“No danger. I’m turning into a bear from association with you.”

“A bear, sir?”

“Yes sir a bear, sir!”

“Do you consider me a bear, do you?”

“An unmitigated grizzly bear, sir, of the most ferocious and uncivilized description,” replied Roundjacket, with great candor.

“Very well, sir,” replied Mr. Rushton, who seemed to relish these pleasantries of Mr. Roundjacket “very well, sir, turn into a bear as much as you choose; but, for heaven sake, don’t become a poetical bear.”

“There it is again!”

“What, sir?”

“You are finding fault with the harmless amusement of my leisure hours. It’s not very interesting here, if your Honor would please to remember. I have no society none, sir. What can I do but compose?”

“You want company?”

“I want a wife, sir; I acknowledge it freely.”

Mr. Rushton smiled grimly.

“Why don’t you get one, then?” he said; “but this is not what I meant. I’m going to give you a companion.”

“A companion?”

“An assistant, sir.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Roundjacket, “I shall then have more time to devote to my epic.”

“Epic, the devil! You’ll be obliged to do more than ever.”

“More?”

“Yes you will have to teach the new comer office duty.”

“Who is he?”

“An Indian.”

“What?”

“The Indian boy Verty you have seen him, I know.”

Mr. Roundjacket uttered a prolonged whistle.

“There!” cried Mr. Rushton “you are incredulous, like everybody!”

“Yes, I am!”

“You doubt my ability to capture him?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, sir! we’ll see. I have never yet given up what I have once undertaken. Smile as you please, you moon-struck poet; and if you want an incident to put in your trashy law-epic, new nib your pen to introduce a wild Indian. Stop! I’m tired talking! Don’t answer me. If any one calls, say I’m gone away, or dead, or anything. Get that old desk ready for the Indian. He will be here on Monday.”

And Mr. Rushton passed into his sanctum, and slammed the door after him.

On the next day the lawyer set out toward the pine hills. On the road he met Verty strolling along disconsolately. A few words passed between them, and they continued their way in company toward the old Indian woman’s hut. Mr. Rushton returned to Winchester at twilight.

On Monday morning Verty rode into the town, and dismounted at the door of the law office.