"Also," said Ken, "the alphabet of the language."
"American Uncontracted, or Revised, Grade One and a Half?" Phil asked airily.
"They sound equally bad, but if there's any choice, give me the easiest. Sounds like geological survey stuff."
Phil rummaged again, and brought to light an alphabet which she had made for herself in her early Braille days.
"And the paper and stuff you use," Ken demanded.
"Here, take everything!" cried Felicia, thrusting out handfuls of irrelevant books and papers. "Stop asking for things in dribbles."
Ken settled himself at the table, scowled at the embossed alphabet, and then clamped a piece of the heavy paper into the slate. He grasped the little punch firmly, and, with a manner vigorous, if not defiant, he set to work.
"You just poke holes in the paper through the squares, eh, and they turn into humps?"
"The squares don't turn into humps; the holes do. Don't whack so hard."
There was silence for a short time, broken only by Ken's mutterings and the click of the
