The Limping Goose

Начало книги

To look at Johnny Fletcher, sprawled on the bed, with his hands under his head, you would have thought that he was doing a spot of plain ordinary loafing. But no, Johnny was really working. He was Thinking.

In the bathroom, Sam Cragg splashed away as he washed out their socks and underwear. His stomach was growling, but he was reasonably happy. They’d missed breakfast and dinner the night before, but there’d be something to eat today. Johnny was thinking. He’d come up with something; he always did.

And then the man banged on the door.

Sam came out of the bathroom, holding a pair of dripping socks. He looked at Johnny, whose face was screwed up in thought as he stared at the dingy ceiling.

“Somebody’s at the door, Johnny,” he announced. “Shall I see who it is?”

“Yes,” replied Johnny vacantly.

Sam stepped to the door and opened it a few inches. A large, truculent-looking man pushed the door all the way open. “I’m looking for Sam Cragg,” he announced.

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