 Mr. Hoddie, read by Jessica Hines. They got out of the car and went in the front door of Mr. Hoddie's house. I've an idea Dad's going to question you rather sharp tonight. Clarice whispered. About what, Clarice? The usual stuff—jobs and things like that and whether you can support me in a fitting way. Jackie's going to do that, Claude said. When Jackie wins there won't be any need for any jobs. Don't you ever mention Jackie to my Dad, Claude Cuppage, or that'll be the end of it. If there's one thing in the world he can't abide is Greyhounds. Don't you ever forget that? Ah, Christ! Claude said. Tell him something else—anything—anything to make him happy, see? And with that she led Claude into the parlour. Mr. Hoddie was a widower, a man with a prim, sour mouth, and an expression of eternal disapproval all over his face. He had the small, close together teeth of his daughter, Clarice, the same suspicious, inward look about the eyes, but none of her freshness and vitality, none of her warmth. He was a small, sour apple of a man, grey-skinned and shriveled, with a dozen or so surviving strands of black hair pasted across the dome of his bald head. But a very superior man was Mr. Hoddie, a grosser's assistant, one who wore a spotless white gown at his work, who handled large quantities of such precious commodities as butter and sugar, who was deferred to, even smiled at, by every housewife in the village. Claude Cuppage was never quite at his ease in this house, and that was precisely as Mr. Hoddie intended it. They were sitting round the parlour in the parlour with cups of tea in their hands. Mr. Hoddie in the best chair, to the right of the fireplace. Claude and Clarice on the sofa, decorously separated by a wide space. The younger daughter, Ada, was on a hard, upright chair to the left, and they made a little circle round the fire—a stiff, tense little circle—primly tea-sipping. Yes, Mr. Hoddie, Claude was saying, you can be quite sure both Gordon and me's got a number of nice little ideas up our sleeves this very moment. It's only a question of taking our time and making sure which is going to be the most profitable. What sort of ideas? Mr. Hoddie asked, fixing Claude with his small, disapproving eyes. Ah, there you are now—that's it, you see. Claude shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Sample complete. Ready to continue?