"No, I don't. “What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Still, his robust frame enabled him to hold out. You never can tell. He's settling an account in the house. But you must allow me to observe, my good Sir, that you're wholly in the wrong respecting my friend. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. The job is easy. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them.
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