A rescheduled day. Three o'clock this afternoon. Several hours from now. A long cruel wait, which will probably include a great deal of Nowcasting. It couldn't be at a worse time. Never again. There's a ceiling light to look at, a clock, a little propaganda about white smiles to curl the toes at. And through the window there's a car parking area to look at.
And it's at this juncture your writer of pulp allows his mind to wander across
the pages of Mathurin, who at least had the bottom shelf of his House Library to
stare at. It was the shelf of H, and in the shelf of H there were sixteen books,
all of which except one had been written by Henty. The first book in the row had
been written by Habberton and that book was called Annals of a Baby Son.