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I thought. Have you any idea of the damage that fool could do if he ever learns to tell his head from a haddock?” He stomped across to the old writing desk that stood in the corner and pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil from the drawer. “Write this down,” he shouted, thrusting them in Miles’s direction. The old man cleared his throat. “‘Dear Gertrude,’” he yelled. “‘Don’t worry about a thing. Have taken Miles and Little for geography lesson. Back in six months approx, if we survive. Yours, etc., etc., Baltinglass of Araby.’ Now, fold that up, boy, and we’ll give it to Louis the postman on the way out.”
    He paused for a moment, scratching the back of his head. “Think I have something that might come in handy,” he said. He marched back into the kitchenand began rummaging in the cupboards, returning a minute later with a battered biscuit tin, which he upended on the table. A pile of odds and ends fell out and rolled across the polished wood. There was a cotton reel bristling with needles, some twisted pipe cleaners, a lock of blond hair tied with fuse wire, coins from every continent, rubber bands, pencil sharpeners, half a stick of dynamite, ball bearings, a wax crayon (there’s always one of them), a whistle, a dozen wasted batteries, some string, a magnet, two teeth, a roll of solder, a tiger’s egg, a broken penknife, two dust-covered bull’s-eyes, a small—
    â€œJust a minute!” said Miles, plucking a small stone from the tide of knicknacks. It was egg-shaped and polished, and shot through with deep amber stripes.
    â€œFind something interesting, Master Miles?” said Baltinglass.
    â€œIs this really a Tiger’s Egg?” asked Miles in astonishment.
    â€œNope,” barked Baltinglass of Araby. “It’s a fake. Bought it at a street stall in Hong Kong many years ago. Best place in the world for picking up fakes, Hong Kong. If they made a copy of your head and set it on your shoulder you wouldn’t know which one to shave.”
    Miles held it up to the window, and it glowed with a honey-colored light.
    â€œIt’s beautiful!” said Little.
    â€œBut what use is a fake tiger’s egg?” asked Miles. He suddenly realized that he had never seen the real Egg, though he had carried it with him all his life. He wondered just how good a copy this one was.
    â€œNo idea,” said Baltinglass, “but it has more chance of being useful in my pocket than lurking behind the semolina.” He took the fake egg back from Miles and slipped it into a buttoned pocket inside his jacket. “Best if I put it in here for safekeeping, eh? Now, lock the doors and batten the hatches, the two of you. We’ll leave through the garage.”
    Miles rolled up Baltinglass’s map while Little locked the French windows and drew the heavy bolts on the front door; then they followed Baltinglass as he marched to a small wooden door in a corner of the hallway. He threw the door open to the sound of skittering mouse feet and a smell of dust and old grease, and they stepped through into a small garage that was carpeted with dust. Bars of sunlight crept in between the planks of the door and striped a large shape that stood under a tarpaulin in the center of the room, so that for a moment Miles thought the tiger stood there waiting for him.As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could make out the shape of a car beneath the cover, and he looked at it with curiosity.
    â€œPull off the tarp, then,” bellowed Baltinglass, “and let the old girl breathe.”
    Miles and Little each took a corner of the tarpaulin and pulled. A massive car emerged from beneath it like a dark green whale. It had leather bench seats and big chrome headlights, and Miles was struck with the feeling that it had been waiting in expectant silence for him to arrive.
    â€œAin’t she a beauty?” said Baltinglass.