“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?”