It seemed much thinner than when he had last seen it. It was dusty and dirty, and its fur was untidy and ragged. It had hunched itself up into a miserable lump, and its long snail’s eyes were drawn in quite tight so that they hardly showed at all.
“Listen,” said the Psammead, in a voice that sounded as though it would begin to cry in a minute, “I don’t think the creature who keeps this shop will ask a very high price for me. I’ve bitten him more than once, and I’ve made myself look as common as I can. He’s never had a glance from my beautiful, beautiful eyes. Tell the others I’m here—but tell them to look at some of those low, common beasts while I’m talking to you. The creature inside mustn’t think you care much about me, or he’ll put a price upon me far, far beyond your means. I remember in the dear old days last summer you never had much money. Oh—I never thought I should be so glad to see you—I never did.” It sniffed, and shot out its long snail’s eyes expressly to drop a tear well away from its fur. “Tell the others I’m here, and then I’ll tell you exactly what to do about buying me.”
Cyril tied his bootlace into a hard knot, stood up and addressed the others in firm tones—
“Look here,” he said, “I’m not kidding—and I appeal to your honour,” an appeal which in this family was never made in vain. “Don’t look at that hutch—look at the white rat. Now you are not to look at that hutch whatever I say.”
He stood in front of it to prevent mistakes.
“Now get yourselves ready for a great surprise. In that hutch there’s an old friend of ours—don’t look!—Yes; it’s the Psammead, the good old Psammead! it wants us to buy it. It says you’re not to look at it. Look at the white rat and count your money! On your honour don’t look!”
The others responded nobly. They looked at the white rat till they quite stared him out of countenance, so that he went and sat up on his hind legs in a far corner and hid his eyes with his front paws, and pretended he was washing his face.
Cyril stooped again, busying himself with the other bootlace and listened for the Psammead’s further instructions.
“Go in,” said the Psammead, “and ask the price of lots of other things. Then say, ‘What do you want for that monkey that’s lost its tail—the mangy old thing in the third hutch from the end.’ Oh—don’t mind my feelings—call me a mangy monkey—I’ve tried hard enough to look like one! I don’t think he’ll put a high price on me—I’ve bitten him eleven times since I came here the day before yesterday. If he names a bigger price than you can afford, say you wish you had the money.”
“But you can’t give us wishes. I’ve promised never to have another wish from you,” said the bewildered Cyril.