He had finished his egg; he was drinking his tea with appreciative noises, when he discovered that the baker _had_ noted him. Bealby’s eyes, at first inanely open above the tilting tea cup, were suddenly riveted on something that was going on in the baker’s window. From where he sat he could see that detestable bill, and then slowly, feeling about for it, he beheld a hand and a floury sleeve. The bill was drawn up and vanished and then behind a glass shelf of fancy bread and a glass shelf of buns something pink and indistinct began to move jerkily.... It was a human face and it was trying to peer into the little refreshment shop that sheltered Bealby.... Bealby’s soul went faint. He had one inadequate idea. “Might I go out,” he said, “by your back way?” “There isn’t a back way,” said the motherly little woman. “There’s a yard—.” “If I might,” said Bealby, and was out in it. No way at all! High walls on every side. He was back like a shot in the shop, and now the baker was half-way across the road. “Fivepence,” said Bealby and gave the little old woman sixpence. “Here,” she cried, “take your penny!” He did not wait. He darted out of the door. The baker was all over the way of escape. He extended arms that seemed abnormally long and with a weak cry Bealby found himself trapped. Trapped, but not hopelessly. He knew how to do it. He had done it in milder forms before, but now he did it with all his being. Under the diaphragm of the baker smote Bealby’s hard little head, and instantly he was away running up the quiet sunny street. Man when he assumed the erect attitude made a hostage of his belly. It is a proverb among the pastoral Berbers of the Atlas mountains that the man who extends his arms in front of an angry ram is a fool.