Sender writes on 8 August:
“I dare say my most favorite pen now lies fallow like the chaff of the fields, for it no longer writes with the smooth fluid motion I’ve come to know over these three decades. Kindly yours, Elwood Blake.”
Reply on 14 August:
“Perhaps you can describe for me, in detailed terms, what happens when you dip your pen in the well. I await your reply with pleasure, and shall assist you forthwith. Warm regards, Dirk Betts.”
Sender writes back on 20 August:
“The tip of my favorite pen seeks the liquid embrace of a fine India Ink, yet finds rocky purchase where no ink can be located. As I stared longingly towards the bottom of the glass bottle, I saw through it with the same clarity as Granddad’s fine Austrian spectacles. I fear irreparable damage, and that my beloved pen – a gift from my dear Aunt Winsom Peck – shall write no more. Please regard my plea post haste. Kindly, Elwood.”
Reply on 26 August:
“Dearest Elwood: If my eyes aren’t befuddling your kind words, I suspect with no prejudice that your supply of fine India Ink has been depleted; for the tip of your fine pen is not exiting the bottle soaked in this luscious writing fluid.
A tragic incident indeed.
I believe you shall fancy a call on Doc McGill at his General Store on Harmore Road immediately, for his supply of India Ink is among the finest that can be procured throughout the world. I remain your humble servant in good standing.
Yours, Dirk Betts.”