to
the passersby, and thus beguiled the time with conversation. Cyril was
leaning his elbow on the top of a hutch that had seemed empty when they
had inspected the whole edifice of hutches one by one, and he was trying
to reawaken the interest of a hedgehog that had curled itself into a
ball earlier in the interview, when a small, soft voice just below his
elbow said, quietly, plainly and quite unmistakably--not in any squeak
or whine that had to be translated--but in downright common English--

'Buy me--do--please buy me!'

Cyril started as though he had been pinched, and jumped a yard away from
the hutch.

'Come back--oh, come back!' said the voice, rather louder but still
softly; 'stoop down and pretend to be tying up your bootlace--I see it's
undone, as usual.'

Cyril mechanically obeyed. He knelt on one knee on the dry, hot dusty
pavement, peered into the darkness of the hutch and found himself face
to face with--the Psammead!

It seemed much thinner than when he had last seen it. It was dusty and
dirty, and its fur was untidy and ragged. It had hunched itself up into
a miserable lump, and its long snail's eyes were drawn in quite tight so
that they hardly showed at all.

'Listen,' said the Psammead, in a voice that sounded as though it would
begin to cry in a minute, 'I don't think the creature who keeps this
shop will ask a very high price for me. I've bitten him more than once,
and I've made myself look as common as I can. He's never had a glance
from my beautiful, beautiful eyes. Tell the others I'm here--but tell
them to look at some of those low, common beasts while I'm talking to
you. The creature inside mustn't think you care much about me, or he'll
put a price upon me far, far beyond your means. I remember in the dear
old days last summer you never had much money. Oh--I never thought I
should be so glad to see you--I never did.' It sniffed, and shot out its
long snail's eyes expressly to drop a tear well away from its fur. 'Tell
the others I'm here, and then I'll tell you exactly what to do about
buying me.' Cyril tied his bootlace into a hard knot, stood up and
addressed the others in firm tones--

'Look here,' he said, 'I'm not kidding--and I appeal to your honour,' an
appeal which in this family was never made in vain. 'Don't look at that
hutch--look at the white rat. Now you are not to look at that hutch
whatever I say.'

He stood in front of it to prevent mistakes.

'Now get yourselves re