“You set me an hard task, Jack!” I said, and I think I sighed.
“Easier to do, maybe, than to reckon on,” saith he, in his dry, tholemode (Note 2) way. “Thou needest write but one word at once, and thou canst take thine own time to think what word to write.”
“But I have no parchment,” said I. I am a little afraid I coveted not any, for I fancied not the business at all. It was Jack who wanted the story writ out fair, not I.
“Well, I have,” saith Jack calmly.
“Nor any quills,” said I.
“I have,” saith Jack, after the same fashion.
“And the ink is dried-up.”
“Then will we buy more.”
“But—” I stayed, for I thought I had better hold my tongue.
“But— I have no mind to it,” saith Jack. “That might have come first, Sissot. It shows, when it doth, that thou hast come to an end of thine excuses. Nay, sweet heart, do but begin, and the mind will have after.”