In his left hand, Roundjacket carried a small brown newspaper, with
heavy straggling type, and much dilapidated from its contact with the
equestrian mail-bag, which it had evidently issued from only a short
time before. In his right hand, the poet held a ruler, which described
eccentric circles in the air, and threatened imaginary foes with
torture and extermination.
The poet's hair stood up; his breath came and went; his coat-skirts
moved from side to side, with indignation; and he evidently regarded
something in the paper with a mixture of horror and despair.
Verty paused for a moment on the threshold; then took off his hat and
went in.
Round jacket turned round.
Verty gazed at him for a moment in silence; then smiling:
"What is the matter, sir?" he said.
"Matter, sir!" cried Roundjacket--"everything is the matter, sir!"
Verty shook his head, as much as to say, that this was a dreadful
state of things, and echoed the word "everything!"
"Yes, sir! everything!--folly is the matter!--crime is the
matter!--statutory misdemeanor is the matter!"
And Roundjacket, overcome with indignation, struck the newspaper a
savage blow with his ruler.
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