Mrs. Mortimer arose, stepped to a bundle of shawls lying in a Windsor chair, unwrapped a portable writing-case which appeared to be the kernel of the bundle, and laid it on the table—all this with extreme docility.
"I'll trouble you to do the writin'," said Tilda, laying a sheet of paper before Sam after she had chosen a pen and unsnapped the ink-case.
"Why not Mortimer?" he protested feebly.
"I wouldn' make Arguin' a 'abit, if I was you."
Sam collapsed and took the pen from her, after eyeing the palms of his hands as though he had a mind to spit on them.
"Now write," she commanded, and began to dictate slowly.
She had taken command of the room. The Mortimers could only stand by and listen, as helpless as Arthur Miles. She spoke deliberately, patiently, indulging all Sam's slowness of penmanship—
"'DEAR Mr. 'UCKS,—This comes 'opin' to find you well as it leaves us all at present. I promised to write in my own 'and; but time is pressin', as I am goin' to tell you. So you must please put up with Mr. Bossom, and excuse mistakes. I will sign this to let you know there is no fake. We are at Stratford-on-Avon: w'ich for slow goin' must be a record: but all well and 'earty. Mr. M. 'as 'ad luck with 'is actin'—' 'Ow much?"
"Six-seven-nine," answered Sam as he caught up with her.
"Clear?"