But the Psammead had to have a plate of sand fetched for it, for it was quite faint. When it had refreshed itself a little it said—
“Now then! Let me see the charm,” and Anthea laid it on the green table-cover. The Psammead shot out his long eyes to look at it, then it turned them reproachfully on Anthea and said—
“But there’s only half of it here!”
This was indeed a blow.
“It was all there was,” said Anthea, with timid firmness. She knew it was not her fault.
“There should be another piece,” said the Psammead, “and a sort of pin to fasten the two together.”
“Isn’t half any good?”—“Won’t it work without the other bit?”—“It cost seven-and-six.”—“Oh, bother, bother, bother!”—“Don’t be silly little idiots!” said everyone and the Psammead altogether.
Then there was a wretched silence. Cyril broke it—
“What shall we do?”
“Go back to the shop and see if they haven’t got the other half,” said the Psammead. “I’ll go to sand till you come back. Cheer up! Even the bit you’ve got is some good, but it’ll be no end of a bother if you can’t find the other.”