“Yes, I have looked, Mr. Joseph. I shifted her out the other day. It’s in the bale. You can tell.”

“Split her up,” Mr. Joseph commanded.

The storeman pulled out a clasp-knife, opened it, and dug the blade into the front of the bale. Sammy Joseph watched him in a silence that was broken only by the uneasy sighing of the rafters above their heads.

“It’s hot in here,” said Sammy Joseph. “There’s a nor’west gale blowing outside. I hate a hot wind.”

“Oppressive,” said the storeman. He drew the blade of his knife downwards, sawing at the bale. The strands of sacking parted in a series of tiny explosions. Through the fissure bulged a ridge of white wool.

“Get a lungful of that,” said the storeman, straightening himself. “It’s something chronic. Try.”

Mr. Joseph said: “I get it from here, thanks. I can’t understand it. It’s not bellies in that pack, either. Bellies smell a bit but nothing to touch this.” He opened his cigarette case. “Have one?”

“Ta, Mr. Joseph. I don’t mind if I do. It’s not so good, this pong, is it?”

“It’s coming from inside, all right. They must have baled up something in the press. A rat.”

“You will have your rat, sir, won’t you?”

“Let’s have some of that wool out.” Mr. Joseph glanced at his neat worsted suit. “You’re in your working clothes,” he added.

The storeman pulled at a tuft of wool. “Half a sec’, Mr. Joseph. She’s packed too solid.” He moved away to the end wall. Sammy Joseph looked at the rent in the bale, reached out his hand and drew it back again. The storeman returned wearing a gauntleted canvas glove on his right hand and carrying one of the iron hooks used for shifting wool bales. He worked it into the fissure and began to drag out lumps of fleece.

“Phew!” whispered Sammy Joseph.

“I’ll have to hand it to you in one respect, sir. She’s not dead wool.”

Mr. Joseph picked a lock from the floor, looked at it, and dropped it. He turned away and wiped his hand vigorously on a bale. “It’s frightful,” he said. “It’s a God-almighty stench. What the hell’s wrong with you!”