{"product_id":"2940013740617","title":"A Shilling for Candles","description":"It was a little after seven on a summer morning, and William Potticary\u003cbr\u003ewas taking his accustomed way over the short down grass of the cliff-top.\u003cbr\u003eBeyond his elbow, two hundred feet below, lay the Channel, very still and\u003cbr\u003eshining, like a milky opal. All around him hung the bright air, empty as\u003cbr\u003eyet of larks. In all the sunlit world no sound except for the screaming\u003cbr\u003eof some seagulls on the distant beach; no human activity except for the\u003cbr\u003esmall lonely figure of Potticary himself, square and dark and\u003cbr\u003euncompromising. A million dewdrops sparkling on the virgin grass\u003cbr\u003esuggested a world new-come from its Creator's hand. Not to Potticary, of\u003cbr\u003ecourse. What the dew suggested to Potticary was that the ground fog of\u003cbr\u003ethe early hours had not begun to disperse until well after sunrise. His\u003cbr\u003esubconscious noted the fact and tucked it away, while his conscious mind\u003cbr\u003edebated whether, having raised an appetite for breakfast, he should turn\u003cbr\u003eat the Gap and go back to the Coastguard Station, or whether, in view of\u003cbr\u003ethe fineness of the morning, he should walk into Westover for the morning\u003cbr\u003epaper, and so hear about the latest murder two hours earlier than he\u003cbr\u003ewould otherwise. Of course, what with wireless, the edge was off the\u003cbr\u003emorning paper, as you might say. But it was an objective. War or peace, a\u003cbr\u003eman had to have an objective. You couldn't go into Westover just to look\u003cbr\u003eat the front. And going back to breakfast with the paper under your arm\u003cbr\u003emade you feel fine, somehow. Yes, perhaps he would walk into the town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pace of his black, square-toed boots quickened slightly, their\u003cbr\u003eshining surface winking in the sunlight. Proper service, these boots\u003cbr\u003ewere. One might have thought that Potticary, having spent his best years\u003cbr\u003ein brushing his boots to order, would have asserted his individuality, or\u003cbr\u003eexpressed his personality, or otherwise shaken the dust of a meaningless\u003cbr\u003ediscipline off his feet by leaving the dust on his boots. But no,\u003cbr\u003ePotticary, poor fool, brushed his boots for love of it. He probably had a\u003cbr\u003eslave mentality, but had never read enough for it to worry him. As for\u003cbr\u003eexpressing one's personality, if you described the symptoms to him he\u003cbr\u003ewould, of course, recognize them. But not by name; In the Service they\u003cbr\u003ecall that \"contrariness.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA seagull flashed suddenly above the cliff-top, and dropped screaming\u003cbr\u003efrom sight to join its wheeling comrades below. A dreadful row these\u003cbr\u003egulls were making. Potticary moved over to the cliff edge to see what\u003cbr\u003ejetsam the tide, now beginning to ebb, had left for them to quarrel over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe white line of the gently creaming surf was broken by a patch of\u003cbr\u003everdigris green. A bit of cloth. Baize, or something. Funny it should\u003cbr\u003estay so bright a color after being in the water so--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePotticary's blue eyes widened suddenly, his body becoming strangely\u003cbr\u003estill. Then the square black boots began to run. _Thud, thud, thud,_\u003cbr\u003eon the thick turf, like a heart beating. The Gap was two hundred yards\u003cbr\u003eaway, but Potticary's time would not have disgraced a track performer. He\u003cbr\u003eclattered down the rough steps hewn in the chalk of the Gap, gasping;\u003cbr\u003eindignation welling through his excitement. That was what came of going\u003cbr\u003einto cold water before breakfast! Lunacy, so help him. Spoiling other\u003cbr\u003epeople's breakfasts, too. Schaefer's best, except where ribs broken. Not\u003cbr\u003elikely to be ribs broken. Perhaps only a faint after all. Assure the\u003cbr\u003epatient in a loud voice that he is safe. Her arms and legs were as brown\u003cbr\u003eas the sand. That was why he had thought the green thing a piece of\u003cbr\u003ecloth. Lunacy, so help him. Who wanted cold water in the dawn unless they\u003cbr\u003ehad to swim for it? He'd had to swim for it in his time. In that Red Sea\u003cbr\u003eport. Taking in a landing party to help the Arabs. Though why anyone\u003cbr\u003ewanted to help the lousy bastards--that was the time to swim. When you\u003cbr\u003ehad to. Orange juice and thin toast, too. No stamina. Lunacy, so help\u003cbr\u003ehim.","brand":"WDS Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47070258856176,"sku":"2940013740617","price":2.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013740617_p0.jpg?v=1763589606","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013740617","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}