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

'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.

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.

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

'I have no other suggestions,' said Jim. 'I can only counsel caution and the maintaining of the now legendary low profile.'

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

'What's that,' asked Neville.

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

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

'What's that,' asked Neville.

'Is that it?' Omally asked.

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

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

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.'

'What's that,' asked Neville.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

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.'

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

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