Phœbe laughed.
"But what always interests me most in this letter is the postscript," she said. "It reads: 'Thy mother thinks thou wilt make better speed if I make thee to know that the players thou wottest of'——"
"What's a 'wottest'?" said Droop, in puzzled tones.
"Wottest means knowest—haven't you read Shakespeare?"
"No," said Droop.
"'The players thou wottest of are to stop at the Peacock, and will be giving some sport there.'
"Now, those players always interest me," Phœbe continued. "Somehow I can't help but believe that William Shakespeare——"
"Fiddle ends!" Rebecca interrupted. "I've heard that talk fifty-leven times an' I'm pinin' fer relief. Mr. Droop, would you mind tellin' us what the time o' year is now. Seems to me that sun has whirled in an' out o' that window 'nough times to bring us back to the days o' creation."
Droop consulted the date indicator and announced that it was now September 5, 1897.
"Not a year yet!" cried the two women together.