SORRELL was trying to fasten the straps of the little brown portmanteau, but since the portmanteau was old and also very full, he had to deal with it tenderly.
"Come and sit on this thing, Kit."
The boy had been straddling a chair by the window, his interest divided between his father's operations upon the portmanteau and a game of football that was being played in Lavender Street by a number of very dirty and very noisy small boys.
Christopher went and sat. He was a brown child of eleven, with a grave face and a sudden pleasant smile. His bent knees showed the shininess of his trousers.
"Have to be careful, you know," said Sorrell.
The father's dark head was close to the boy's brown one. He too was shiny in a suit of blue serge. His long figure seemed to curve over the portmanteau with anxiously rounded shoulders and sallow and intent face. The child beside him made him look dusty and frail.
"Now, the other one, old chap. Can't afford to be rough. Gently does it."
He was a little out of breath, and he talked in short jerky sentences as he pulled carefully at the straps. A broken strap would be a disaster, for the clasp of the lock did not function, and this dread of a trivial disaster seemed to show in the carefulness of the man's long and intelligent hands. They were cautious yet flurried. His breathing was audible in the room.
"That's it."
The words expressed relief. He was kneeling, and as he looked up towards the window and saw the strip of sky and the grimy cornice and grey slates of the house across the way, his poise suggested the crouch of a creature escaping from under some huge upraised foot. For the last three
