Walter Bidelow’s Egg
At the age of fifty-two, Professor Julian Cramp had developed rather a paunch, though, being the type of man he was, he disguised it well; the grey dress coat stuck out at the sides like wings, shading his increasing girth, and the bright yellow cravat worn at his throat was an odd and dazzling distraction. But, pressed against the cream fabric of his waistcoat and scuffing the top of his trousers, Cramp’s soft gut swayed with each betraying, blundering step down to the specimen room. The long mirror screwed to the wall outside the lavatories served as a useful interval to such unwelcome physical activity, and Cramp tended to take a few moments, catching his breath and flattening his flyaway hair, before opening the door to the room of bones and fossils. Once settled
