"Na, sur."

Nightingale's eye upon his name, as Friar Bacon wrote it, was a
sight to consider in after years. Rather incredulous was
Nightingale, with a hand at the corner of his mouth, and his head on
one side, as to those drawings really meaning him. Doubtful was
Nightingale whether any virtue had gone out of him in that committal
to paper. Meditative was Nightingale as to what would come of young
Nightingale's growing up to the acquisition of that art. Suspended
was the interest of Nightingale, when his name was done--as if he
thought the letters were only sown, to come up presently in some
other form. Prodigious, and wrong-handed was the cross made by
Nightingale on much encouragement--the strokes directed from him
instead of towards him; and most patient and sweet-humoured was the
smile of Nightingale as he stepped back into a general laugh.

"Order!" cried the little man. Immediately disappearing into his
mug.

"Ralph Mangel, Roger Wurzel, Edward Vetches, Matthew Carrot, and
Charles Taters!" said Friar Bacon.

"All here, sir."

"You understand it, Mangel?"

"Iss, sir, I unnerstaans it."

"Can you write your name, Mangel?"