Just listen"-- "I'd see your poem sunk first; yes, sir! burned--exterminated.

I would see it in Chancery!" cried the lawyer, in the height of his wrath.
Mr.Roundjacket's hand fell.
"No--no!" he said, with a reproachful expression, "you wouldn't be so cruel, Judge!" "I would!" said Mr.Rushton, with a snap.
"In Chancery ?" "Yes, sir!" "Mr.Rushton." "Sir ?" "Are you in earnest ?" "I am, sir." "You distinctly state that you would see my poem consigned to--" "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.