6. CHAPTER VI.
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.
