'I think I know who it is,' said Angua. 'I'll see to it.'
She tucked in her shirt.
'Pull the door to if you go out,' Mrs Cake called after her as she went out into the hall. 'Oi'm just off to change the dirt in Mr Winkins' coffin, on account of his back giving him trouble.'
'It looks like gravel to me, Mrs Cake.'
'Orthopaedic, see?'
Carrot was standing respectfully on the doorstep with his helmet under his arm and a very embarrassed expression on his face.
'Well?' said Angua, not unkindly.
'Er. Good morning. I thought, you know, perhaps, you not knowing very much about the city, really. I could, if you like, if you don't mind, not having to go on duty for a while . . . show you some of it. . .?'
For a moment Angua thought she'd contracted pre-science from Mrs Cake. Various futures flitted across her imagination.
'I haven't had breakfast,' she said.
'They make a very good breakfast in Gimlet's dwarf delicatessen in Cable Street.'
'It's lunchtime.'
'It's breakfast time for the Night Watch.'
'I'm practically vegetarian.'
'He does a soya rat.'
She gave in. 'I'll fetch my coat.'
'Har, har,' said a voice, full of withering cynicism.
She looked down. Gaspode was sitting behind Carrot, trying to glare while scratching himself furiously.
'Last night we chased a cat up a tree,' said Gaspode.
'You and me, eh? We could make it. Fate has thrown us together, style of fing.'
'Go away.'
'Sorry?' said Carrot.
'Not you. That dog.'
Carrot turned.
'Him? Is he bothering you now? He's a nice little chap.'
'Woof, woof, biscuit.'
Carrot automatically patted his pocket.
'See?' said Gaspode. 'This boy is Mister Simple, am I right?'
'Do they let dogs in dwarf shops?' said Angua.
'No,' said Carrot.