"There's his outlandish lingo—Delaware or Shawnee, I have no doubt!" said Mr. Roundjacket.
Verty rose erect.
"Was I asleep? he said, smiling.
"I think you were."
"This place makes me go to sleep," said the boy. "How dull it is!"
"Dull! do you call this office dull? No, sir, as long as I am here this place is sprightly and even poetical."
"Anan?" said Verty.
"Which means, in Iroquois or some barbarous language, that you don't understand," replied Mr. Roundjacket. "Listen, then, young man, I mean that the divine spirit of poesy dwells here—that nothing, therefore, is dull or wearisome about this mansion—that all is lively and inspiring. Trust me, my dear young friend, it was copying that miserable deed which put you to sleep, and I can easily understand how that happened. The said indenture was written by the within."
And Mr. Roundjacket pointed toward the sanctum of Mr. Rushton.
Verty only smiled.