Was it too late to escape? Perhaps if he did not answer the knock, the
blighter might think there was nobody at home. But suppose he opened
the door and peeped in? A spasm of Napoleonic strategy seized Sam. He
dropped silently to the floor and concealed himself under the desk.
Napoleon was always doing that sort of thing.
There was another tap. Then, as he had anticipated, the door opened.
Sam, crouched like a hare in its form, held his breath. It seemed to
him that he was going to bring this delicate operation off with
success. He felt he had acted just as Napoleon would have done in a
similar crisis. And so, no doubt, he had to a certain extent; only
Napoleon would have seen to it that his boots and about eighteen inches
of trousered legs were not sticking out, plainly visible to all who
entered.
"Good morning," said a voice.
Sam thrilled from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. It was
the voice which had been ringing in his ears through all his waking
hours.
"Are you busy, Mr.
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