empty when they had inspected the whole edifice of hutches one by
one, and he was trying to reawaken the interest of a hedgehog
that had curled itself into a ball earlier in the interview, when
a small, soft voice just below his elbow said, quietly, plainly
and quite unmistakably--not in any squeak or whine that had to be
translated--but in downright common English--

'Buy me--do--please buy me!'

Cyril started as though he had been pinched, and jumped a yard
away from the hutch.

'Come back--oh, come back!' said the voice, rather louder but
still softly; 'stoop down and pretend to be tying up your
bootlace--I see it's undone, as usual.'

Cyril mechanically obeyed. He knelt on one knee on the dry, hot
dusty pavement, peered into the darkness of the hutch and found
himself face to face with--the Psammead!

It seemed much thinner than when he had last seen it. It was
dusty and dirty, and its fur was untidy and ragged. It had
hunched itself up into a miserable lump, and its long snail's
eyes were drawn in quite tight so that they hardly showed at all.

'Listen,' said the Psammead, in a voice that sounded as though it
would begin to cry in a minute, 'I don't think the creature who
keeps this shop will ask a very high price for me. I've bitten
him more than once, and I've made myself look as common as I can.
He's never had a glance from my beautiful, beautiful eyes. Tell