"It sounds good," he said. "That's the picture for me. I's'll see that."
He pulled his cap lower down, made sure that his coatcollar covered his throat and neck, and walked with stirred imagination off into the driving rain.
"Cheerio, Frank," I called out as he turned the corner. I wondered what would be left of him by the time they had finished. Would they succeed in tapping and draining dry the immense subterranean reservoir of his dark inspired mind?
I watched him. He ignored the traffic-lights, walked diagonally across the wide wet road, then ran after a bus and leapt safely on to its empty platform.
And I with my books have not seen him since. It was like saying goodbye to a big part of me, for ever.
Table of Contents
The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner
Uncle Ernest
Mr. Raynor the School-teacher
Noah's Ark
On Saturday Afternoon
The Match
The Disgrace of Jim Scarfedale