CHAPTER 13: THE WHISTLING PIGEDGAR ROWDEY’S TELEPHONE STARTED RINGING at eight on Sunday morning. A number of his friends knew that he generally rose with the dawn. Some would have called then but were held back by discretion. Others weren’t.
It didn’t matter. Edgar had switched off the bell.
He was immersed in a story involving a little girl and a beaver-like pond creature. The girl was called Isobel; he hadn’t decided yet what to call the creature. So much depended on the balance (also not decided yet) between its helpful and sinister qualities.
The story’s title was Salvaged Ends. That phrase had fluttered into his net yesterday on the way to Compass Point. Stopping off at a fabric shop, he overheard a girl ask the sales clerk: Does this have salvaged ends? He hurried out before the
