With the aid of the light coming in through gaps where the rusted galvanised iron of the roof had shifted, I was able to continue my examination of my treasure. I skimmed the pages, eyes darting to each illustration then to the keywords of the caption, then I drooled over what a joy it would be to read the text if only there was time. Almost every page gave me pause for some reason as I skipped by it. There was going to be great trouble over this—I could at least anticipate from my father the worst beating of my life. But that didn’t matter—for in exchange I had become the possessor of the whole world, the universe even, and all the great thoughts and deeds of humankind.
    Well, sort of.

    In truth there were things about those encyclopaedias that didn’t matter either. It was not exactly the fine tomes of Encyclopaedia Britannica that were in question here, nor any of the other similar works that might be considered great. This was Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia of which there were many misgivings to be had. But I knew nothing of that, and neither did my mother, nor would Horrie, nor even probably the salesman. To me the book was a complete wonder, but it was a wonder with a price.