"O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the wood.
- Threepence, please.
His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a side pocket. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the till.
- Thank you, sir. Another time.
A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. No: better not: another time.
- Good morning, he said, moving away.
- Good morning, sir.
No sign. Gone. What matter?
He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim: planters' company." (U4.179)