“What’s he want books for!” Horrie thundered. “He can’t even read proper! All his teachers say so!”
I knew that time was running out, but I determinedly rushed on while the subtleties of the situation were explained to Horrie in the kitchen below.
“Listen, boy-o,” Horrie’s voice menaced through the ceiling. “You come down right now or so help me God I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life“
I could not help but respond.
“In a minute, Dad. I’m nearly finished it.”
I was about halfway through with around 400 pages to go.
“What do you mean, finished!”
“I’ll come down when I’ve finished the book.”
“Why don’t you come down and finish it in the kitchen?” my mother, the eternal peacemaker, offered.
“No. Cos then the man will take it away.”
That gave the salesman an idea.
“I’ve got copies of Volumes Two all the way through the Ten out in the boot of my car. Don’t you want to see them too?”
“Ain’t finished the first one yet.”
    And I returned to skimming the book, pausing to gaze in awe at the giant wooden horse from Helen of Troy, with its bellyful of Greek soldiers. It was getting a pretty reasonable impression of how they felt in there, waiting it out.
    The salesman decided that the time had come to call the police. My mother offered him more tea while Horrie stood on the table and belted on the trapdoor. I turned another page and hurried on.
“Ain’t gonna get him that way,” Horrie declared.
“Why don’t you cut another hole in the ceiling?” the man asked.
“Too dangerous,” Horrie murmured. “All sorts of electrical wiring up there.”
“Oh my God,” my mother gasped with realisation. “he’ll electrocute himself.”
“If he ain’t done it by now, he probably won’t. But cuttin’ in—that’s far too risky.”
“Then how about going in through the roof?” the man further suggested.
“It’s all rust and borers up there. Most likely just bring the whole lot down on top of him.”
“That’s it,” the salesman said. “I’m calling the fire brigade. You got a phone?”
He had to go to the telephone box down at the corner.