'Well,' replied Jack, in a tone of indifference.
'How shall I begin?' asked Sponge, twirling the pen between his fingers, and spluttering the ink over the paper.
'Begin!' replied Jack, 'begin, oh, begin, just as you usually begin.'
'As a letter?' asked Sponge.
'I 'spose so,' replied Jack; 'how would you think?'
'Oh, I don't know,' replied Sponge. 'Will you try your hand?' added he, holding out the pen.
'Why, I'm busy just now, you see,' said he, pointing to his cigar, 'and that horse of yours' (Jack had ridden the redoubtable chestnut, Multum in Parvo, who had gone very well in the company of Hercules) pulled so confoundedly that I've almost lost the use of my fingers,' continued he, working away as if he had got the cramp in both hands; 'but I'll prompt you,' added he, 'I'll prompt you.'
'Why don't you begin then?' asked Sponge.
'Begin!' exclaimed Jack, taking the cigar from his lips; 'begin!' repeated he, 'oh, I'll begin directly—didn't know you were ready.'
Jack then threw himself back in his chair, and sticking out his little bandy legs, turned the whites of his eyes up to the ceiling, as if lost in meditation.