Mrs. Brown, having no knowledge of the subject, shifted her point of attack.
"What sort of clothes will you want?" she said.
"Oh—jus' clothes," said William vaguely.
"Yes, but what sort?"
"How can I tell," said William irritably, "till I've wrote the play?"
******
William's family long remembered the silence and peace that marked the next few afternoons. During them, William, outstretched upon the floor of the summer-house, wrote his play with liberal application of ink over his person and clothes and the surrounding woodwork. William was not of that class of authors who neglect the needs of the body. After every few words he took a deep draught from a bottle of Orange Ale that stood on his right and a bite from an ink-coated apple on his left. He had laid in a store of apples and sweets and chocolates under the seat of the summer-house for his term of authorship. Every now and then he raised a hand to his frowning brow in thought, leaving upon it yet another imprint of his ink-sodden fingers.
"Where is he?" said his father in hushed wonder at the unwonted peace.
"He's in the summer-house writing a play," said his wife.
"I hope it's a nice long one," said her husband.