The storeman had sworn with violence and extreme obscenity. Joseph turned to look at him. His gloved hand had disappeared inside the fissure. The edge of the gauntlet showed and no more. His face was turned towards Joseph.

The eyes and mouth were wide-open.

“I’m touching something.”

“With the hook?”

The storeman nodded. “I won’t look any more,” he said loudly.

“Why not?”

“I won’t look.”

“Why the hell?”

“It’s the Mount Moon clip.”

“I know that. What of it?”

“Don’t you read the papers?”

Sammy Joseph changed colour. “You’re mad,” he said. “God, you’re crazy.”

“It’s three weeks, isn’t it, and they can’t find her. I was in the last war. I know what that stink reminds me of. Flanders.”

“Go to hell,” said Mr. Joseph, incredulous but violent. “What do you think you are? A radio play or what?”

The storeman plucked his arm from the bale. Locks of fleece were sticking to the canvas glove. With a violent movement he jerked them free and they lay on the floor, rust-coloured and wet.

“You’ve left the hook in the bale.”

“— the hook.”

“Get it out, Alf.”

“Come on. What’s wrong with you? Get it out.” The storeman looked at Sammy Joseph as if he hated him. A loose sheet of galvanized iron on the roof rattled in the wind and the store was filled momentarily with a vague soughing.

“Come on,” Sammy Joseph said again. “It’s only a rat.”

The storeman plunged his hand into the fissure. His bare arm twisted and worked. He braced the palm of his left hand against the bale and wrenched out the hook. With an air of incredulity he held the hook out, displaying it.