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.
He sat still, scarcely moving even for ease in his chair, staring at
the white paper until it began to dance in front of his eyes, but he
did not begin to write on it.
"Are you still waiting for inspiration, John?" his Uncle asked.
"Aye," he answered.
"You don't seem to be getting any," Mrs. MacDermott said.
He got up and put the writing materials away. "I'll wait 'til the
morning," he replied.