I FEAR IT MAY NOT BE SHARP ENOUGH.
“And no one ever tried this on you?”
THERE IS A SAYING: YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU?
“Yes.”
HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE SERIOUSLY BELIEVED IT?
“I remember reading once,” said Miss Flitworth, “about these heathen kings in the desert somewhere who build huge pyramids and put all sorts of stuff in them. Even boats. Even gels in transparent trousers and a couple of saucepan lids. You can’t tell me that’s right.”
I’VE NEVER BEEN VERY SURE ABOUT WHAT IS RIGHT, said Bill Door. I AM NOT SURE THERE IS SUCH A THING AS RIGHT. OR WRONG. JUST PLACES TO STAND.
“No, right’s right and wrong’s wrong,” said Miss Flitworth. “I was brought up to tell the difference.”
BY A CONTRABANDISTOR.
“A what?”
A MOVER OF CONTRABAND.
“There’s nothing wrong with smuggling!”
I MERELY POINT OUT THAT SOME PEOPLE THINK OTHERWISE.
“They don’t count!”
BUT—
Lightning struck, somewhere on the hill. The thunderclap rocked the house; a few bricks from the chimney rattled into the grate. Then the windows shook to a fierce pounding.
Bill Door strode across the room and threw open the door.
Hailstones the size of hens’ eggs bounced off the doorstep and into the kitchen.
OH. DRAMA.
“Oh, hell!”
Miss Flitworth ducked under his arm.
“And where’s the wind come from?”
THE SKY? said Bill Door, surprised at the sudden excitement.
“Come on!” She whirled back into the kitchen and scrabbled on the dresser for a candle lantern and some matches.
BUT YOU SAID IT WOULD DRY.
“In a normal storm, yes. In this lot? It’s going to be ruined! We’ll find it spread all over the hill in the morning!”
She fumbled the candle alight and ran back again.
Bill Door looked out into the storm. Straws whirred past, tumbling on the gale.
RUINED? MY HARVEST? He straightened up. BUGGER THAT.
The hail rumbled on the roof of the smithy.