Yet on Friday morning there was a letter for Toby Dyke. He woke up to see it a few inches in front of his nose. Through the clouds of drowsiness and through his resentment at the fact that someone, contrary to instructions, must have wakened him, he saw an oblong of white with his own name written on it in block capitals. ‘TOBY DYKE ESQ. THE RING OF BELLS. CHOVEY.’ He shut his eyes. But as soon as he did so he felt a hand on his shoulder. He gave an impatient lurch in the bed. However, as someone was sitting on its edge, the space for lurching in was uncomfortably constricted. He opened his eyes again and saw the letter still being held before him, as, were he thought to be probably dead, a mirror might be held to see if his breath would stain it. ‘What the hell is it?’ he asked in thick and sullen tones. ‘It’s the post,’ said George patiently. ‘Can’t be. The post doesn’t come till eight-thirty. Never does, anywhere.’ ‘Hear that?’ said George. ‘It’s ten o’clock striking.’ Toby edged a hand from under the bedclothes and took the letter.
