Death mounted his horse.

I AM GOING TO SPEND IT.

The party was in full swing. The banner with the legend ‘Goodebye Windle 130 Gloriouse Years' was dripping a bit in the heat. Things were getting to the point where there was nothing to drink but the punch and nothing to eat but the strange yellow dip with the highly suspicious tortillas and nobody minded. The wizards chatted with the forced jolliness of people who see one another all day and are now seeing one another all evening.

In the middle of it all Windle Poons sat with a huge glass of rum and a funny hat on his head. He was almost in tears.

"A genuine Going-Away party!" he kept muttering. "Haven't had one of them since old "Scratcher"

He Went Away, " the capital letters fell into place easily, "back in, mm, the Year of the Intimidating, mm, Porpoise. Thought everyone had forgotten about ‘em."

"The Librarian looked up the details for us, " said the Bursar, indicating a large orangutan who was trying to blow into a party squeaker. "He also made the banana dip. I hope someone eats it soon."

He leaned down.

"Can I help you to some more potato salad?" he said, in the loud deliberate voice used for talking to imbeciles and old people.

Windle cupped a trembling hand to his ear.

"What? What?"

"More! Salad! Windle?"

"No, thank you."

"Another sausage, then?"

"What?"

"Sausage!"

"They give me terrible gas all night," said Windle.

He considered this for a moment, and then took five.

"Er," shouted the Bursar, "do you happen to know what time -?"

"Eh?"

"What! Time?"

"Half past nine," said Windle, promptly if indistinctly.

"Well, that's nice, " said the Bursar. "It gives you the rest of the evening, er, free."

Windle rummaged in the dreadful recesses of his wheelchair, a graveyard for old cushions, dog-eared books and ancient, half-sucked sweets. He flourished a small green-covered book and pushed it into the Bursar's hands.