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"
Now
tell
us
.
What
's
your
name
?
"
"
Percival
Wemys
Madison
.
The
Vicarage
,
Harcourt
St.
Anthony
,
Hants
,
telephone
,
telephone
,
tele
--
"
As
if
this
information
was
rooted
far
down
in
the
springs
of
sorrow
,
the
littlun
wept
.
His
face
puckered
,
the
tears
leapt
from
his
eyes
,
his
mouth
opened
till
they
could
see
a
square
black
hole
.
At
first
he
was
a
silent
effigy
of
sorrow
;
but
then
the
lamentation
rose
out
of
him
,
loud
and
sustained
as
the
conch
.
"
Shut
up
,
you
!
Shut
up
!
"
Percival
Wemys
Madison
would
not
shut
up
.
A
spring
had
been
tapped
,
far
beyond
the
reach
of
authority
or
even
physical
intimidation
.
The
crying
went
on
,
breath
after
breath
,
and
seemed
to
sustain
him
upright
as
if
he
were
nailed
to
it
.
"
Shut
up
!
Shut
up
!
"
For
now
the
littluns
were
no
longer
silent
.
They
were
reminded
of
their
personal
sorrows
;
and
perhaps
felt
themselves
to
share
in
a
sorrow
that
was
universal
.
They
began
to
cry
in
sympathy
,
two
of
them
almost
as
loud
as
Percival
.
Maurice
saved
them
.
He
cried
out
.
"
Look
at
me
!
"
He
pretended
to
fall
over
.
He
rubbed
his
rump
and
sat
on
the
twister
so
that
he
fell
in
the
grass
.
He
downed
badly
;
but
Percival
and
the
others
noticed
and
sniffed
and
laughed
.
Presently
they
were
all
laughing
so
absurdly
that
the
biguns
joined
in
.
