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

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.

'What's that,' asked Neville.

'What's that,' asked Neville.

'Is that it?' Omally asked.

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

Omally awoke with a start, something was pressing firmly into his throat and stopping his breath. 'Ow, ooh, get off, get off.' These imprecations were directed towards Jim Pooley, whose oversized boot had come snugly to rest beneath Omally's chin. 'Will you get off I say?'

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

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

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?'

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.

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.

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

'What's that,' asked Neville.

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.'

The words were drowned by the scream of a police-car siren. Driven at high speed, the car came through the red lights at the bottom of Haling Road, roared past them and screeched to a standstill a hundred yards further on, outside the Flying Swan. A plainclothes detective and three burly constables leapt from the vehicle and swept into the saloon bar.

'What's that,' asked Neville.

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 was just talking about that to Pooley,' said Neville, gesturing towards Jim's table.

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

'What's that,' asked Neville.

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

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

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

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