The clock in the belfry struck four. Little by little, the murky light was failing. It was getting too dark to read by. Bastian put the book down. What was he to do now? There was bound to be electric light in this attic. He groped his way to the door and ran his hand along the wall, but couldn’t find a switch. He looked on the opposite side, and again there was none. He took a box of matches from his trouser pocket (he always had matches on him, for he had a weakness for making little fires), but they were damp and the first three wouldn’t light. In the faint glow of the fourth he tried to
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