"Shut up," said Jack, because the woman was there.
They ate heartily, the effects of the jamboree having passed. After the meal they strolled to the door to look out, away from that lugubrious parlour and bedroom. They found a stiff wind blowing, the sky clear with running clouds and vivid stars in the spaces.
"Let's get!" said Tom. It was his constant craving.
"We can't leave Rackett."
"We can. He pushed us in. Let's get. Why can't we?"
"Oh well, we can't," said Jack.
Rackett had entered the kitchen, and was eating his meal. He asked the woman for ink.
"There's no ink," she said.
"Must be somewhere," said Amos, her husband. "Jack Grant's letter was written in ink."
"I never got a letter," said Jack, turning.