I laughed.
"Nort," I said, "you aren't the only man in this world who is trying to write—and is ashamed of himself because he can't."
With a smile which I can only characterize as sheepish, Nort drew from his breast pocket a packet of paper. He was all eagerness again, and was for reading me his production on the spot; but just at this moment we saw the old Captain driving up to the gate alone. Where was Anthy? A little later Fergus came, and for some time Harriet filled the whole house with the pleasant noises and bustle of hospitality, which she knows best how to do.
"Captain," I said as soon as ever I could get in a word, "Nort has brought a manuscript with him to read to us."
At that the Captain instinctively lifted one hand to his breast.
"The Captain has one, too," I said.
"A mere editorial," responded the Captain with dignity.
"Where's yours, Fergus?" I asked.
Fergus took his pipe out, barked once or twice deep down inside, and put it back again, which, interpreted, meant that Fergus was amused.