He took it gingerly between his knotty fingers and fumbled with it a moment.
“Whar’s ther ink, pard?”
“The ink is on the pen.”
“So ’tis. Thet’s funny. I didn’t see yer dip it inter no ink bottle.”
“That’s what we call a fountain pen. The ink is carried in the handle.”
The explanation seemed all Greek to Sanders.
“Some new-fangled idee, eh? Wal, here goes,” leaning over the document. “Whar do I put it?”
“Write your name here,” said Prawle, indicating the place with the tip end of his little finger.
Sanders flourished his arm and then stopped.
“By shinger,” ejaculated Meyer, who had been aching to say something for the last five minutes, “dot rooster vill dook all day mit dose pizness, ain’d it?”