There was a pause. The editor looked at the proof. Through the frosted glass Mr Biswas was figures passing in the newsroom. He became aware of the noise again: the traffic in the street, the regular rattle of machinery, the intermittent chatter of typewriters, occasional laughter.

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-one.’

‘You have come from the country, you are thirty-one, you have never written, and you want to be a reporter. What do you do?’

Mr Biswas thought of estate-driver, exalted it to overseer, rejected shopkeeper, rejected unemployed. He said, ‘Sign-painter.’

The editor rose. ‘I have just the job for you.’

He led Mr Biswas out of the office, through the newsroom (the group around the water-cooler had broken up), past a machine unrolling sheets of typewritten paper, into a partially dismantled room where carpenters were at work, through more rooms, and then into a yard. Down the lane at one end Mr Biswas could see the street he had left a few minutes before.

The editor walked about the yard, pointing. ‘Here and here,’ he said. ‘And here.’

Mr Biswas was given a pain and a brush, and he spent the rest of the afternoon writing signs: No Admittance to Wheeled Vehicles, No Entry, Watch out for Vans, No Hands Wanted.