“Step inside, Wingate!” says the Captain; which the other does, and remains standing to hear what the word was wanted.
“You can write, Jack—can’t you?”
It is Ryecroft who puts the inquiry.
“Well, Captain; I ain’t much o’ a penman; but I can scribble a sort o’ rough hand after a fashion.”
“A fair enough hand for Mary Morgan to read it, I dare say.”
“Oh, sir, I only weesh there wor a chance o’ her gettin’ a letter from me!”
“There is a chance. I think we can promise that. If you’ll take this pen and put down what my friend Major Mahon dictates to you, it will in all probability be in her hands ere long.”
Never was pen more eagerly laid hold of than that offered to Jack Wingate. Then, sitting down to the table as directed, he waits to be told what he is to write.
The Major, bent over him, seems cogitating what it should be. Not so, however. Instead, he is occupied with an astronomical problem which is puzzling him. For its solution he appeals to Ryecroft, asking:—
“How about the moon?”