Percival tiptoes with enormous caution to the other ladder; wheels it to a shelf where he has found entertainment; selects his book; perches himself; and for an hour or more the two, each on his ladder, the child and the man, the lissom young form and the withered old figure, sit high among the books, entranced among the worlds that books discover.
"'M-'m!" says Mr. Amber at intervals, frantically waving.
"Only coughed," explains Percival. "Only that choking, you know. It—"
"'M-'m! 'M-'m!" and they bury themselves again.
That is the usual course. Once or twice there have been conversations across the room from the tops of the ladders. Percival has looked up from his book to find Mr. Amber turned towards him and regarding him with eyes that do not appear to see his smile of greeting. "Mr. Amber, is there anything funny about me that you look at me so?"
Mr. Amber will start as though he had been dreaming. "Funny? Eh? Why, no, Percival; nothing funny at all."
"If it is my boots, they are quite clean. I gave them twelve wipes each, like you told me."
"It's not your boots."
Silence between them.
"Funny us two sitting up here like this, like two mountains in the sea. Rather jolly, isn't it?"