"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?"