“Ho! ’E does, does ’e,” he said, “then two pun ten’s my price. He’s not got his fellow that monkey ain’t, nor yet his match, not this side of the equator, which he comes from. And the only one ever seen in London. Ought to be in the Zoo. Two pun ten, down on the nail, or _hout_ you goes!” The children looked at each other—twenty-three shillings and fivepence was all they had in the world, and it would have been merely three and fivepence, but for the sovereign which Father had given to them “between them” at parting. “We’ve only twenty-three shillings and fivepence,” said Cyril, rattling the money in his pocket. “Twenty-three farthings and somebody’s own cheek,” said the dealer, for he did not believe that Cyril had so much money. There was a miserable pause. Then Anthea remembered, and said— “Oh! I _wish_ I had two pounds ten.” “So do I, Miss, I’m sure,” said the man with bitter politeness; “I wish you “ad, I’m sure!” Anthea’s hand was on the counter, something seemed to slide under it. She lifted it. There lay five bright half sovereigns. “Why, I _have_ got it after all,” she said; “here’s the money, now let’s have the Sammy,... the monkey I mean.” The dealer looked hard at the money, but he made haste to put it in his pocket. “I only hope you come by it honest,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. He scratched his ear again. “Well!” he said, “I suppose I must let you have it, but it’s worth thribble the money, so it is—” He slowly led the way out to the hutch—opened the door gingerly, and made a sudden fierce grab at the Psammead, which the Psammead acknowledged in one last long lingering bite. “Here, take the brute,” said the shopman, squeezing the Psammead so tight that he nearly choked it. “It’s bit me to the marrow, it have.” The man’s eyes opened as Anthea held out her arms. “Don’t blame me if it tears your face off its bones,” he said, and the Psammead made a leap from his dirty horny hands, and Anthea caught it in hers, which were not very clean, certainly, but at any rate were soft and pink, and held it kindly and closely. “But you can’t take it home like that,” Cyril said, “we shall have a crowd after us,” and indeed two errand boys and a policeman had already collected. “I can’t give you nothink only a paper-bag, like what we put the tortoises in,” said the man grudgingly. So the whole party went into the shop, and the shopman’s eyes nearly came out of his head when, having given Anthea the largest paper-bag he could find, he saw her hold it open, and the Psammead carefully creep into it. “Well!” he said, “if that there don’t beat cockfighting! But p’raps you’ve met the brute afore.” “Yes,” said Cyril affably, “he’s an old friend of ours.” “If I’d a known that,” the man rejoined, “you shouldn’t a had him under twice the money. ’Owever,” he added, as the children disappeared, “I ain’t done so bad, seeing as I only give five bob for the beast. But then there’s the bites to take into account!”