Free The Umbrella Man and Other Stories by Roald Dahl

boy, the girl, and I, holding Martinis in our hands, watching the little man at work. We watched him hammer two nails into the table, about six inches apart. He didn’t hammer them right home; he allowed a small part of each one to stick up. Then he tested them for firmness with his fingers.
    Anyone would think the son of a bitch had done this before, I told myself. He never hesitates. Table, nails, hammer, kitchen chopper. He knows exactly what he needs and how to arrange it.
    “And now,” he said, “all we want is some string.” He found some string. “All right, at last we are ready. Will you pleess to sit here at de table?” he said to the boy.
    The boy put his glass away and sat down.
    “Now place de left hand between dese two nails. De nails are only so I can tie your hand in place. All right, good. Now I tie your hand secure to de table—so.”
    He wound the string around the boy’s wrist, then several times around the wide part of the hand, then he fastened it tight to the nails. He made a good job of it and when he’d finished there wasn’t any question about the boy being able to draw his hand away. But he could move his fingers.
    “Now pleess, clench de fist, all except for de little finger. You must leave de little finger sticking out, lying on de table.”
    “
Ex
-cellent!
Ex
-cellent! Now we are ready. Wid your right hand you manipulate de lighter. But one moment, pleess.”
    He skipped over to the bed and picked up the chopper. He came back and stood beside the table with the chopper in his hand.
    “We are all ready?” he said. “Mister referee, you must say to begin.”
    The English girl was standing there in her pale blue bathing costume right behind the boy’s chair. She was just standing there, not saying anything. The boy was sitting quite still holding the lighter in his right hand, looking at the chopper. The little man was looking at me.
    “Are you ready?” I asked the boy.
    “I’m ready.”
    “And you?” to the little man.
    “Quite ready,” he said and he lifted the chopper up in the air and held it there about two feet above the boy’s finger, ready to chop. The boy watched it, but didn’t flinch and his mouth didn’t move at all. He merely raised his eyebrows and frowned.
    “All right,” I said. “Go ahead.”
    The boy said, “Will you please count aloud the number of times I light it.”
    “Yes,” I said. “I’ll do that.”
    With his thumb he raised the top of the lighter, and again with the thumb he gave the wheel a sharp flick. The flint sparked and the wick caught fire and burned with a small yellow flame.
    “One!” I called.
    He didn’t blow the flame out; he closed the top of the lighter on it and he waited for perhaps five seconds before opening it again.
    He flicked the wheel very strongly and once more there was a small flame burning on the wick.
    “Two!”
    No one else said anything. The boy kept his eyes on the lighter. The little man held the chopper up in the air and he too was watching the lighter.
    “Three!”
    “Four!”
    “Five!”
    “Six!”
    “Seven!” Obviously it was one of those lighters that worked. The flint gave a big spark and the wick was the right length. I watched the thumb snapping the top down on to the flame. Then a pause.Then the thumb raising the top once more. This was an all-thumb operation. The thumb did everything. I took a breath, ready to say eight. The thumb flicked the wheel. The flint sparked. The little flame appeared.
    “Eight!” I said, and as I said it the door opened. We all turned and we saw a woman standing in the doorway, a small, black-haired woman, rather old, who stood there for about two seconds then rushed forward, shouting, “Carlos! Carlos!” She grabbed his wrist, took the chopper from him, threw it on the bed, took hold of the little man by the lapels of his white suit and began shaking him very vigorously, talking to him fast and loud and fiercely all the time in some Spanish-sounding