'Get me sand; silver sand from the oil and colour shop. And get
me plenty.'

They got the sand, and they put it and the Psammead in the round
bath together, and it rubbed itself, and rolled itself, and shook
itself and scraped itself, and scratched itself, and preened
itself, till it felt clean and comfy, and then it scrabbled a
hasty hole in the sand, and went to sleep in it.

The children hid the bath under the girls' bed, and had supper.
Old Nurse had got them a lovely supper of bread and butter and
fried onions. She was full of kind and delicate thoughts.

When Anthea woke the next morning, the Psammead was snuggling
down between her shoulder and Jane's.

'You have saved my life,' it said. 'I know that man would have
thrown cold water on me sooner or later, and then I should have
died. I saw him wash out a guinea-pig's hutch yesterday morning.
I'm still frightfully sleepy, I think I'll go back to sand for
another nap. Wake the boys and this dormouse of a Jane, and when
you've had your breakfasts we'll have a talk.'

'Don't YOU want any breakfast?' asked Anthea.

'I daresay I shall pick a bit presently,' it said; 'but sand is
all I care about--it's meat and drink to me, and coals and fire
and wife and children.' With these words it clambered down by
the bedclothes and scrambled back into the bath, where they heard
it scratching itself out of sight.