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?"
"Iss, sir."
Breathless interest. A dense background of smock-frocks accumulated
behind Mangel, and many eyes in it looked doubtfully at Friar Bacon,
as who should say, "Can he really though?" Mangel put down his hat,
retired a little to get a good look at the paper, wetted his right
hand thoroughly by drawing it slowly across his mouth, approached
the paper with great determination, flattened it, sat down at it,
and got well to his work. Circuitous and sea-serpent-like, were the
movements of the tongue of Mangel while he formed the letters;
elevated were the eyebrows of Mangel and sidelong the eyes, as, with
his left whisker reposing on his left arm, they followed his
performance; many were the misgivings of Mangel, and slow was his
retrospective meditation touching the junction of the letter p with
h; something too active was the big forefinger of Mangel in its
propensity to rub out without proved cause.
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