The Last of the Foresters | Page 6

the husk."
"The devil take the Courts! I'm sick of 'em," said Mr. Rushton, with
great fervor, "and as to character, there is no character anywhere, or in
anybody." Having enunciated which proposition, Mr. Rushton rose to
go.
The Squire rose too, holding him by the button.
"I'd like to argue that point with you," he said, laughing. "Come now,
tell me how--"
"I won't--I refuse--I will not argue."
"Stay to dinner, then, and I promise not to wrangle."
"No--I never stay to dinner! A pretty figure my docket would cut, if I
staid to your dinners and discussions! You've got the deeds I came to
see you about; my business is done; I'm going back."

"To that beautiful town of Winchester!" laughed the Squire, following
his grim guest out.
"Abominable place!" growled Rushton; "and that Roundjacket is
positively growing insupportable. I believe that fellow has a mania on
the subject of marrying, and he runs me nearly crazy. Then, there's his
confounded poem, which he persists in reading to himself nearly
aloud."
"His poem?" asked the Squire.
"Yes, sir! his abominable, trashy, revolting poem, called--'The Rise and
Progress of the Certiorari.' The consequence of all which, is--here's my
horse; find the martingale, you black cub!--the consequence is, that my
office work is not done as it should be, and I shall be compelled to get
another clerk in addition to that villain, Roundjacket."
"Why not exchange with some one?"
"How?"
"Roundjacket going elsewhere--to Hall's, say."
Mr. Rushton scowled.
"Because he is no common clerk; would not live elsewhere, and
because I can't get along without him," he said. "Hang him, he's the
greatest pest in Christendom!"
"I have heard of a young gentleman called Jinks," the Squire said, with
a sly laugh, "what say you to him for number two?"
"Burn Jinks!" cried Mr. Rushton, "he's a jack-a-napes, and if he comes
within the reach of my cane, I'll break it over his rascally shoulders! I'd
rather have this Indian cub who has just left us."
"That's all very well; but you can't get him."
"Can't get him?" asked Rushton, grimly, as he got into the saddle.

"He would never consent to coop himself up in Winchester. True, my
little Redbud, who is a great friend of his, has taught him to read, and
even to write in a measure, but he's a true Indian, whether such by
descent or not. He would die of the confinement. Remember what I
said about character just now, and acknowledge the blunder you
committed when you took the position that there was no such thing."
Rushton growled, and bent his brows on the laughing Squire.
"I said," he replied, grimly, "that there was no character to be found
anywhere; and you may take it as you choose, you'll try and extract an
argument out of it either way. I don't mean to take part in it. As to this
cub of the woods, you say I couldn't make anything of him--see if I
don't! You have provoked me into the thing--defied me--and I accept
the challenge."
"What! you will capture Verty, that roving bird?"
"Yes; and make of this roving swallow another bird called a secretary. I
suppose you've read some natural history, and know there's such a
feathered thing."
"Yes."
"Very well," said Mr. Rushton, kicking his horse, and cramming his
cocked hat down on his forehead. "I'll show you how little you know of
human nature and character. I'll take this wild Indian boy, brought up in
the woods, and as free and careless as a deer, and in six months I'll
change him into a canting, crop-eared, whining pen-machine, with
quills behind his ears, and a back always bending humbly. I'll take this
honest barbarian and make a civilized and enlightened individual out of
him--that is to say, I'll change him into a rascal and a hypocrite."
With which misanthropic words Mr. Rushton nodded in a surly way to
the smiling Squire, and took his way down the road toward Winchester.
"Well, well," said the old gentleman, looking after him, "Rushton
seems to be growing rougher than ever;--what a pity that so noble a

heart should have such a husk. His was a hard trial, however--we
should not be surprised. Rough-headed fellow! he thinks he can do
everything with that resolute will of his;--but the idea of chaining to a
writing-desk that wild boy, Verty!"
And the old gentleman re-entered the house smiling cheerfully, as was
his wont.

CHAPTER IV.
HOW VERTY THOUGHT, AND PLAYED, AND DREAMED.
Verty took his weary way westward through the splendid autumn
woods, gazing with his dreamy Indian expression on the variegated
leaves, listening to the far cries of birds, and speaking at times to
Longears and Wolf, his two deer hounds.
Then his head would