He wandered across to the books at
the back of Cayley, and began to tap absent-mindedly on the
shelves, as he looked at the titles. Umpty-iddy-umpty-iddy. Not
that it was much like that at first; he couldn't get the rhythm
of it .... Umpt-y-iddy-umpt-y-iddy. That was better. He was
back at Samuel Taylor Coleridge now. Antony would begin to hear
him soon. Umpt-y-iddy-umpt-y-iddy; just the aimless tapping of a
man who is wondering what book he will take out with him to read
on the lawn. Would Antony hear? One always heard the man in the
next flat knocking out his pipe. Would Antony understand?
Umpt-y-iddy-umpt-y-iddy. C. for Cayley, Antony. Cayley's here.
For God's sake, wait.
"Good Lord! Sermons!" said Bill, with a loud laugh.
(Umpt-y-iddy-umpt-y-iddy) "Ever read 'em, Cayley?"
"What?" Cayley looked up suddenly. Bill's back moved slowly
along, his fingers beating a tattoo on the shelves as he walked.
"Er no," said Cayley, with a little laugh. An awkward,
uncomfortable little laugh, it seemed to Bill.
"Nor do I." He was past the sermons now past the secret door but
still tapping in the same aimless way.
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