I will put my name at the
head of it, and you shall write it.
--That was neatly done. How I hate writing such things! But I suppose I
must do it.
VIII
The Master and I had been thinking for some time of trying to get the
Young Astronomer round to our side of the table. There are many subjects
on which both of us like to talk with him, and it would be convenient to
have him nearer to us. How to manage it was not quite so clear as it
might have been. The Scarabee wanted to sit with his back to the light,
as it was in his present position. He used his eyes so much in studying
minute objects, that he wished to spare them all fatigue, and did not
like facing a window. Neither of us cared to ask the Man of Letters, so
called, to change his place, and of course we could not think of making
such a request of the Young Girl or the Lady. So we were at a stand with
reference to this project of ours.
But while we were proposing, Fate or Providence disposed everything for
us. The Man of Letters, so called, was missing one morning, having
folded his tent--that is, packed his carpet-bag--with the silence of the
Arabs, and encamped--that is, taken lodgings--in some locality which he
had forgotten to indicate.
The Landlady bore this sudden bereavement remarkably well. Her remarks
and reflections; though borrowing the aid of homely imagery and doing
occasional violence to the nicer usages of speech, were not without
philosophical discrimination.
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