Once when we shut up the farm for the winter I left my fountain pen behind. This was little short of a tragedy, but I comforted myself with the knowledge that Jonathan was going back that week-end for a day’s hunt.
“Be sure to get the pen first of all,” I said, “and put it in your pocket.”
“Where is it?” he asked.
“In the little medicine cupboard over the [pg 018] fireplace in the orchard room, standing up at the side of the first shelf.”
“Why not on your desk?” he asked.
“Because I was writing tags in there, and set it up so it would be out of the way.”
“And it was out of the way. All right. I’ll collect it.”
He went, and on his return I met him with eager hand—“My pen!”
“I’m sorry,” he began.
“You didn’t forget!” I exclaimed.