He took it nearer to the lamp and commenced to read aloud. It ran as follows:—
"'She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird—a poor slight thing the pressure or a finger would have crushed—was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless for ever.'
"Why," said Robin, breaking off at this point, "it sounds like something I've read before somewhere."
"I should jolly well think it does," Dave interjected indignantly. "My sister recited that at the Parsonage party last Christmas. It's the 'Death of Little Nell', from Dickens' Old Curiosity Shop."
"You young beggar, you've prigged it!" Robin accused him.
The shamefaced copyist tried to brave it out.
"Well, what if I did?" he asked defiantly. "You only gave us two days' grace, and I got three separate headaches trying to do something funny."
"You should have just sent in your photograph and saved yourself the trouble," said Dave.
Robin pocketed the contribution rather dejectedly, and was relieved when the clanging of the tea-bell saved him from further criticism.
"Meet me round the bonfire in the Forest to-morrow afternoon, my men," he said. "There'll be the usual quantity of venison pasties to give the magazine a start."