Just then I saw the boatman coming who looks after our
motor boat, and I tiptoed to him and asked him to go away, and
not to come back unless he had quieter boats and would not
whistel. He acted very ugly about it, I must say, but he went.
When I came back, Jane was sitting thinking, with her
forhead all puckered.
"What I don't understand, Bab," she said, "is, why no
noise?"
"Because he is writing," I explained. "Although his
clothing has been taken away, he is writing. I don't think I
told you, Jane, but that is his business. He is a Writer. And if
I tell you his name you will faint with surprise."
She looked at me searchingly.
"Locked up--and writing, and his clothing gone! What's he
writing, Bab? His Will?"
"He is doing his duty to the end, Jane," I said softly. "He
is writing the last Act of a Play. The Company is rehearsing the
first two Acts, and he has to get this one ready, though the
Heavens fall."
But to my surprise, she got up and said to me, in a firm
voice:
"Either you are crazy, Barbara Archibald, or you think I
am. You've been stuffing me for about a week, and I don't
beleive a Word of it.
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