lawyer's office.

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.

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH ROUNDJACKET READS HIS GREAT POEM.

Three days after the events which we have just related, or rather after the introduction of the reader to the three localities with which our brief history will concern itself, Mr. Roundjacket was sitting on his high stool in one corner of the office, preparing the papers in a friendly suit in Chancery.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning, and Verty, who rode home every evening, had just come in and had taken his seat at the desk in the corner appropriated to him, beneath the small dingy window, looking out upon the yard. Longears was stretched at his feet.

Verty's face was more dreamy and thoughtful than ever. The dim smile still dwelt upon his lips, and though his countenance had as much of the forest Indian character as ever, there was a languor about the drooping eyelids, with their long lashes, and a stoop in the usually erect neck, which betrayed the existence in the boy's mind of some ever-present sadness. His costume was just what it had always been—moccasins, deerskin leggings, a shaggy forest paletot, and fringed leather gauntlets, which now lay by him near his white fur hat. He had not changed by becoming a lawyer's clerk; but, on the contrary, grown more wild, apparently from the very contrast between his forest appearance and the dingy office.

At times Verty would stretch out his hand, and, taking his cedar bow from a chair, bend it thoughtfully, and utter the low Indian murmur, which has been represented by the letters, "ough" so unsuccessfully; then he would allow the weapon to slide from his nerveless hand—his head would droop—the dim dreamy smile would light up his features for an instant, and he would lean upon the desk and ponder—his countenance half enveloped by the long tangled chestnut hair which still flowed upon his shoulders in wild luxuriance.

Tired of thinking at last, Verty sighed, and took up his pen. For some moments it glided