“Very well,” said Tottie, dipping her pen in the ink-bottle, which was a stone one, and had been borrowed from a neighbour who was supposed to have literary tendencies in consequence of his keeping such an article in his cottage. Squaring her elbows, and putting her head very much on one side, to the admiration of her parents, she prepared to write.
The Bu’ster clutched the blotting-paper, and looked on eagerly, not to say hopefully.
“Oh!” exclaimed Tottie, “it’s red ink; see.”
She held up the pen to view, and no one could deny the fact, not even Billy, who, feeling that he had repressed his natural flow of spirits rather longer than he was accustomed to, and regarding the incident as in some degree destructive of his mother’s peace of mind, hailed the discovery with an exulting cheer.
Mrs Gaff’s palm instantly exploded like a pistol-shot on Billy’s ear, and he measured his length—exactly three feet six—on the floor.
To rise yelling, and receive shot number two from his mother, which sent him headlong into the arms of his father, who gave him the red ink-bottle, and bade him cut away and get it changed as fast as he could scuttle—to do all this, I say, was the work of a moment or two.
Presently Billy returned with the same bottle, and the information that the literary neighbour had a black-ink-bottle, but as there was no ink in it he didn’t think it worth while to send it. A kind offer was made of a bottle of shoe-blacking if the red ink would not do.
“This is awk’ard,” said Gaff, rubbing his nose.
“Try some tar in it,” suggested Mrs Gaff.
Gaff shook his head; but the suggestion led him to try a little soot, which was found to answer admirably, converting the red ink into a rich dark brown, which might pass for black.