It plainly had not for an instant occurred to him that Newick would be
allowed to do his worst.

The Earl paused a moment, still looking at him. "Can you write?" he
asked.

"Yes," answered Cedric, "but not very well."

"Move the things from the table," commanded my lord, "and bring the pen
and ink, and a sheet of paper from my desk."

Mr. Mordaunt's interest began to increase. Fauntleroy did as he was told
very deftly. In a few moments, the sheet of paper, the big inkstand, and
the pen were ready.

"There!" he said gayly, "now you can write it."

"You are to write it," said the Earl.

"I!" exclaimed Fauntleroy, and a flush overspread his forehead. "Will
it do if I write it? I don't always spell quite right when I haven't a
dictionary, and nobody tells me."

"It will do," answered the Earl. "Higgins will not complain of the
spelling. I'm not the philanthropist; you are. Dip your pen in the ink."

Fauntleroy took up the pen and dipped it in the ink-bottle, then he
arranged himself in position, leaning on the table.

"Now," he inquired, "what must I say?"