Horrie entered the front room. I had already drawn the blinds, and laid the thickest belt Horrie owned on the polished table top and stood at attention in the proper punishment position. Horrie took the belt up and felt the edge of it, as if testing the sharpness of a Bowie  knife.
“You know what’s gonna happen now?” Horrie asked coldly.
“Worst beating yet, I reckon,” I answered, striving to keep my voice even. In my mind was a vision of a man, beaten to a pulp, staggering along at the front of the mob. Years later, as often was the case with movies, I would attach the image to its film—On the Waterfront and the battered guy was Marlon Brando, except I falsely remembered it being in colour, perhaps to make the blood show better. I presumed that I would be in a similar condition in a few minutes.
“You bet,” Horrie said. “Why the hell do you do things like this, kid? That bloody book. It can’t be worth this.”
“Yes it is.”
“But now you get the beltin’ and don’t get the book anyway.”
“It was worth it, just for the bit I read.”
Horrie was completely incredulous. “Was it really?”
“Yes.”
    Horrie was thoughtful for a moment. Then he tousled my hair. “We’ll do the beating later. Too many people around now.”
That had never been a problem before!
But Horrie went out into the hall. “Ella. That book bloke still around?”
“Yes. He’s waiting for the police.”
“Okay. Go out and tell him we’ll buy the bloody books.”