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datatime: 2022-11-27 00:00:13 Author:nbXmjYac

'No, either the reporter had no film in his Brownie or the police didn't think it necessary.'

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

'I mean we might tell the police about what we saw; it might start an investigation into what is going on in the Mission.'

'Yes, I can't see the Mercury's ace reporter getting the journalist of the year award for it.'

Omally was not listening, he was peeling a potato. Before him a monstrous heap of such peelings spoke most fluently of the restricted diet upon which the two were at present subsisting. 'It is spud for breakfast,' said he.

'I don't think the Professor would appreciate that, it might interfere with his plans. Also the police might claim conspiracy because we didn't come forward earlier.'

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

'We might simply make a clean breast of it,' said John.

But naught, however, remained to signal that either Jim Pooley or John Omally had ever been there, naught but for two half-consumed pints of Large going warm upon the table and a saloon-bar door which swung quietly to and fro upon its hinge.

'I don't think the Professor would appreciate that, it might interfere with his plans. Also the police might claim conspiracy because we didn't come forward earlier.'

Omally was not listening, he was peeling a potato. Before him a monstrous heap of such peelings spoke most fluently of the restricted diet upon which the two were at present subsisting. 'It is spud for breakfast,' said he.

Pooley jerked himself awake. 'Where am I?' he groaned.

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

'But "early arrest", what do you think that means?'

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

Pooley jerked himself awake. 'Where am I?' he groaned.

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

Norman prodded at his paper. 'Wheelbarrow clue in double slaying.'

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

The two men did not wait to see what might happen. They looked at each other, dropped the newspaper and fled.

Pooley groaned anew. 'I was having such a beautiful dream. I can't go on here,' he moaned, 'I can't live out my days a fugitive in an allotment shed, I wish Archroy had never rebuilt it. You must give yourself up, John, claim diminished responsibility, I will gladly back you up on that.'

'But there isn't a photograph of the wheelbarrow?'

Norman's shop was closed for the half day and a few copies of the midweek Mercury still remained in the wire rack to the front door. Jim took one of these and rattled the letterbox in a perfect impression of a man dropping pennies into it. He and Omally thumbed through the pages.

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