"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."