Paint for you now a picture. Remember the boy and the young maker of books. Teacher and pupil on the hill road behind the village. This same road deserted. Up it trudges an old man beside him yes two boys. Behind him plods an old horse, bundle across its back. Slowly they advance towards the picture plane. Lower right, the water trough on which the book making lessons had been conducted. Old Fishface leads his horse to the trough. Does it drink? Little Angelo, remember, the deaf mute, cocks his head at this. The horse sniffs the water but does not drink. The relevant proverb forming on old Fishface’s tongue never uttered for from behind the the hedge, lower left, comes a shriek. Up pops first the head of a boy, seeing our trio, stays frozen in confusion. Fishface swings round his sighted eye, noting instantly the nakedness of the boy. Fumbles for his sketchpad. Please don’t move. At that the head of the book maker appears. Long thick black hair dishevelled, pulling his trousers up. Fishface smiles. Angelo laughs. And Octavio’s over there by the horse as usual not really paying attention. Some little birds are in the opposite hedge and he is whistling to them. The smile is returned cautiously. Good afternoon, young man. I hope you have not given your little companion cause for his distress? The little companion smiled now in turn, shyly explaining the cause in question. Something pricked me, he said. It did, he insisted, vexed at their laughter. On my bum. It hurts. Fishface and the young book man grinned at each other. Fishface attracted. The young man intrigued. The boy, so endearing. Angelo standing now level with the picture plane back turned, obstructing from view Octavio and the horse at the trough drinking.