He pushed himself off the breakwater and went to look for the office of the Westover Times. It took him some time to find it because, although every citizen of Westover read the local paper, very few of them had occasion to seek it out in its home. Its home was a stone's-throw from the harbour, in a small old house in a small old street which still had its original cobbles. The entrance was so low that Brat instinctively ducked his head as he went in. Beyond, after the bright sunlight outside, there was blackness. But out of the blackness the unmistakable adolescent voice of an office boy said: "Yes?"
Brat said that he would like to see Mr. Macallan.
The voice said that Mr. Macallan was out.
"I suppose you couldn't tell me where I could find him?"
"The fourth table on the left upstairs at the Blue Bird."
"That's explicit."
"Can't help it; that's where he is. That's where he always is, this time of day."
The Blue Bird, it seemed, was a coffee-shop round the corner on the harbour front. And Mr. Macallan was indeed sitting at the fourth table on the left upstairs, which was the one by the far window. Mr. Macallan was sitting with a half-drunk cup of coffee in front of him, glowering down on the bright front. He greeted Brat amiably, however, as one old friend to another, and pulled out a chair for him.
"I'm afraid I haven't been much good to you," Brat said.
"The only way I'll ever get myself on to the front page of the Clarion is in a trunk," Mr. Macallan said.