in tray. “And I can count.”
“Who’s a little fusspot then?” said Mrs. Lavish, as the little dog almost exploded with mad excitement at seeing someone he’d last seen at least ten minutes ago. “Has oo been a good boy? Has he been a good boy, Mr. Bent?”
“Yes, madam. Excessively.” The venom of a snake ice cream could not have been chillier. “May I return to my duties now?”
“Mr. Bent thinks I don’t know how to run a bank, doesn’t he, Mr. Fusspot,” Mrs. Lavish crooned to the dog. “He’s a silly Mr. Bent, isn’t he? Yes, Mr. Bent, you may go.”
Moist recalled an old BhangBhangduc proverb: “When old ladies talk maliciously to their dog, that dog is lunch.” It seemed amazingly appropriate at a time like this, and a time like this was not a good time to be around.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Mrs. Lavish,” he said, standing up. “I shall…think things over.”
“Has he been to see Hubert?” said Mrs. Lavish, apparently to the dog. “He must see Hubert before he goes. I think he is a little confused about finance. Take him to see Hubert, Mr. Bent. Hubert is so good at explaining.”
“As you wish, madam,” said Bent, glaring at Mr. Fusspot. “I’m certain that having heard Hubert explain the flow of money he will no longer be a little confused. Please follow me, Mr. Lipwig.”
Bent was silent as they walked downstairs. He lifted his oversized feet with care, like a man walking across a floor strewn with pins.
“Mrs. Lavish is a jolly old stick, isn’t she?” Moist ventured.
“I believe she is what is known as a ‘character,’ sir,” said Bent somberly.
“A bit tiresome at times?”
“I will not comment, sir. Mrs. Lavish owns fifty-one percent of the shares in my bank.”
His bank, Moist noted.
“That’s strange,” he said. “She just told me she owned only fifty percent.”
“And the dog,” said Bent. “The dog owns one share, a legacy from the late Sir Joshua, and Mrs. Lavish owns the dog. The late Sir Joshua had what I understand is called a puckish sense of humor, Mr. Lipwig.”
And the dog owns a piece of the bank, thought Moist. What a jolly people the Lavishes are, indeed. “I can see that you might not find it very funny, Mr. Bent,” he said.
“I am pleased to say I find nothing funny, sir,” Bent replied as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I have no sense of humor whatsoever. None at all. It has been proven by phrenology. I have Nichtlachen-Keinwortz syndrome, which for some curious reason is considered a lamentable affliction. I, on the other hand, consider it a gift. I am happy to say that I regard the sight of a fat man slipping on a banana skin as nothing more than an unfortunate accident that highlights the need for care in the disposal of household waste.”
“Have you tried—” Moist began, but Bent held up a hand. “Please! I repeat, I do not regard it as a burden! And may I say it annoys me when people assume it is such! Do not feel impelled to try to make me laugh, sir! If I had no legs, would you try to make me run? I am quite happy, thank you!”
He paused by another pair of doors, calmed down a little, and gripped the handles.
“And now, perhaps, I should take this opportunity to show you where the…may I say serious work is done, Mr. Lipwig. This used to be called the counting house, but I prefer to think of it as—” he pulled at the doors, which swung open majestically “—my world.”
It was impressive. And the first impression it gave Moist was: this is Hell on the day they couldn’t find the matches.
He stared at the rows of bent backs, scribbling frantically. No one looked up.
“I will not have abacuses, Calculating Bones, or other inhuman devices under this roof, Mr. Lipwig,” said Bent, leading the way down the central aisle. “The human brain is capable of infallibility in the world of numbers. Since we invented them, how should it be otherwise? We are rigorous here, rigorous—”
“Who’s a little fusspot then?” said Mrs. Lavish, as the little dog almost exploded with mad excitement at seeing someone he’d last seen at least ten minutes ago. “Has oo been a good boy? Has he been a good boy, Mr. Bent?”
“Yes, madam. Excessively.” The venom of a snake ice cream could not have been chillier. “May I return to my duties now?”
“Mr. Bent thinks I don’t know how to run a bank, doesn’t he, Mr. Fusspot,” Mrs. Lavish crooned to the dog. “He’s a silly Mr. Bent, isn’t he? Yes, Mr. Bent, you may go.”
Moist recalled an old BhangBhangduc proverb: “When old ladies talk maliciously to their dog, that dog is lunch.” It seemed amazingly appropriate at a time like this, and a time like this was not a good time to be around.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Mrs. Lavish,” he said, standing up. “I shall…think things over.”
“Has he been to see Hubert?” said Mrs. Lavish, apparently to the dog. “He must see Hubert before he goes. I think he is a little confused about finance. Take him to see Hubert, Mr. Bent. Hubert is so good at explaining.”
“As you wish, madam,” said Bent, glaring at Mr. Fusspot. “I’m certain that having heard Hubert explain the flow of money he will no longer be a little confused. Please follow me, Mr. Lipwig.”
Bent was silent as they walked downstairs. He lifted his oversized feet with care, like a man walking across a floor strewn with pins.
“Mrs. Lavish is a jolly old stick, isn’t she?” Moist ventured.
“I believe she is what is known as a ‘character,’ sir,” said Bent somberly.
“A bit tiresome at times?”
“I will not comment, sir. Mrs. Lavish owns fifty-one percent of the shares in my bank.”
His bank, Moist noted.
“That’s strange,” he said. “She just told me she owned only fifty percent.”
“And the dog,” said Bent. “The dog owns one share, a legacy from the late Sir Joshua, and Mrs. Lavish owns the dog. The late Sir Joshua had what I understand is called a puckish sense of humor, Mr. Lipwig.”
And the dog owns a piece of the bank, thought Moist. What a jolly people the Lavishes are, indeed. “I can see that you might not find it very funny, Mr. Bent,” he said.
“I am pleased to say I find nothing funny, sir,” Bent replied as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I have no sense of humor whatsoever. None at all. It has been proven by phrenology. I have Nichtlachen-Keinwortz syndrome, which for some curious reason is considered a lamentable affliction. I, on the other hand, consider it a gift. I am happy to say that I regard the sight of a fat man slipping on a banana skin as nothing more than an unfortunate accident that highlights the need for care in the disposal of household waste.”
“Have you tried—” Moist began, but Bent held up a hand. “Please! I repeat, I do not regard it as a burden! And may I say it annoys me when people assume it is such! Do not feel impelled to try to make me laugh, sir! If I had no legs, would you try to make me run? I am quite happy, thank you!”
He paused by another pair of doors, calmed down a little, and gripped the handles.
“And now, perhaps, I should take this opportunity to show you where the…may I say serious work is done, Mr. Lipwig. This used to be called the counting house, but I prefer to think of it as—” he pulled at the doors, which swung open majestically “—my world.”
It was impressive. And the first impression it gave Moist was: this is Hell on the day they couldn’t find the matches.
He stared at the rows of bent backs, scribbling frantically. No one looked up.
“I will not have abacuses, Calculating Bones, or other inhuman devices under this roof, Mr. Lipwig,” said Bent, leading the way down the central aisle. “The human brain is capable of infallibility in the world of numbers. Since we invented them, how should it be otherwise? We are rigorous here, rigorous—”
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