the
next table was a spy of the Thought Police, and quite likely he would be in
the cellars of the Ministry of Love within three days, but a cigarette end
must not be wasted. Syme had folded up his strip of paper and stowed it
away in his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again.
'Did I ever tell you, old boy,' he said, chuckling round the stem of
his pipe, 'about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the
old market-woman's skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a
poster of B.B.? Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of
matches. Burned her quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But keen as
mustard! That's a first-rate training they give them in the Spies nowadays
-- better than in my day, even. What d'you think's the latest thing they've
served them out with? Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes! My
little girl brought one home the other night -- tried it out on our
sitting-room door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much as with her
ear to the hole. Of course it's only a toy, mind you. Still, gives 'em the
right idea, eh?'
At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was the
signal to return to work. All three men sprang to their feet to join in the
struggle round the lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston's
cigarette.



VI

Winston was writing in his