There _were_ pens,
indeed--there almost always are--but they were miserable apologies of
things; some were mere crow-quills--sort of cover-hacks of pens, while
others were great, clumsy, heavy-heeled, cart-horse sort of things, clotted
up to the hocks with ink, or split all the way through--vexatious
apologies, that throw a person over just at the critical moment, when he
has got his sheet prepared and his ideas all ready to pour upon paper;
then splut--splut--splutter goes the pen, and away goes the train of
thought. Bold is the man who undertakes to write his letters in his bedroom
with country-house pens. But, to our friends. Jack and Sponge slept next
door to each other; Sponge, as we have already said, occupying the
state-room, with its canopy-topped bedstead, carved and panelled sides, and
elegant chintz curtains lined with pink, and massive silk-and-bullion
tassels; while Jack occupied the dressing-room, which was the state bedroom
in miniature, only a good deal more comfortable. The rooms communicated
with double doors, and our friends very soon effected a passage.
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