Suddenly the itch to write came to John, and he began to rummage among the papers and books on the shelves for writing-paper.
"What are you looking for?" his mother enquired.
"Paper to write on," he said.
"You'll not write one word the night!..."
"Ah, quit, ma!" he said. "I must put down an idea that's come in my head. I'd mebbe forget it in the morning!"
"The greatest writers in the world have sat up all night, writing out their thoughts," Uncle Matthew murmured.
John did not pay any heed to his mother's scowls and remonstrances. He found sheets of writing-paper and placed them neatly on the table, together with a pen and ink. He looked at the materials critically. There was paper, there was ink and there was a pen with a new nib in it, and blotting paper!...
He drew a chair up to the table and sat down in front of the writing paper. He contemplated it for a long time while Mrs. MacDermott put away the remnants of his supper, and his Uncle Matthew sat by the fire watching him.
"What are you waiting for, John?" his Uncle Matthew asked.
"Inspiration," John replied.