Foul Ole Ron?” he said.
“Gottle o’geer, gottle o’geer,” said Ron mysteriously.
“All right…two pence,” said Gunilla.
“Four,” Ron seemed to say. “But let’s not mess about, okay? One dollar per thirty?”
“It’s a deal,” said Goodmountain, who spat on his hand and would have held it out to seal the contract if William hadn’t gripped it urgently.
“Don’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
William sighed. “Have you got any horribly disfiguring diseases?”
“No!”
“Do you want some?”
“Oh.” Gunilla lowered his hand. “You tell your friends to get round here right now, okay?” he said. He turned to William.
“Trustworthy, are they?”
“Well… sort of,” said William. “It’s probably not a good idea to leave paint thinners around.”
Outside, Foul Ole Ron and his dog ambled down the street. And the strange thing was that a conversation was going on, even though there was technically only one person there.
“See? I told you. You just let me do the talkin’, all right?”
“Bugrit.”
“Right. You stick with me and you won’t go far wrong.”
“Bugrit.”
“Really? Well, I spose that’ll have to do. Bark, bark.”
Twelve people lived under the Misbegot Bridge and in a life of luxury, although luxury is not hard to achieve when you define it as something to eat at least once a day and especially when you have such a broad definition of “something to eat.” Technically they were beggars, although they seldom had to beg. Possibly they were thieves, although they only took what had been thrown away, usually by people hurrying to be out of their presence. Outsiders considered that the leader of the group was Coffin Henry, who would have been the city’s champion expectorator if anyone else had wanted the title. But the group had the true democracy of the voteless. There was Arnold Sideways, whose lack of legs only served to give him an extra advantage in any pub fight, where a man with good teeth at groin height had it all his own way. And if it wasn’t for the duck whose presence on his head he consistently denied, the Duck Man would have been viewed as well-spoken and educated and as sane as the next man. Unfortunately, the next man was Foul Ole Ron.
The other eight people were Altogether Andrews.
Altogether Andrews was one man with considerably more than one mind. In a rest state, when he had no particular problem to confront, there was no sign of this except a sort of background twitch and flicker as his features passed randomly under the control of, variously, Jossi, Lady Hermione, Little Sidney, Mr. Viddle, Curly, the Judge, and Tinker; there was also Burke, but the crew had only ever seen Burke once and never wanted to again, so the other seven personalities kept him buried. Nobody in the body answered to the name of Andrews. In the opinion of the Duck Man, who was probably the best in the crew at thinking in a straight line, Andrews had probably been some innocent and hospitable person of a psychic disposition who had simply been overwhelmed by the colonizing souls.
Only among the gentle crew under the bridge could a consensus person like Andrews find an accommodating niche. They’d welcomed him, or them, to the fraternity around the smoky fire. Someone who wasn’t the same person for more than five minutes at a time could fit right in.
One other thing that united the crew—although probably nothing could unite Altogether Andrews—was a readiness to believe that a dog could talk. The group around the smoldering fire believed they had heard a lot of things talk, such as walls. A dog was easy by comparison. Besides, they respected the fact that Gaspode had the sharpest mind of the lot and never drank anything that corroded the container.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” he said. “If you sell thirty of the things, you’ll get a dollar. A whole dollar. Got that?”
“Bugrit.”
“Quack.”
“Haaargghhh…gak!”
“How much is
“Gottle o’geer, gottle o’geer,” said Ron mysteriously.
“All right…two pence,” said Gunilla.
“Four,” Ron seemed to say. “But let’s not mess about, okay? One dollar per thirty?”
“It’s a deal,” said Goodmountain, who spat on his hand and would have held it out to seal the contract if William hadn’t gripped it urgently.
“Don’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
William sighed. “Have you got any horribly disfiguring diseases?”
“No!”
“Do you want some?”
“Oh.” Gunilla lowered his hand. “You tell your friends to get round here right now, okay?” he said. He turned to William.
“Trustworthy, are they?”
“Well… sort of,” said William. “It’s probably not a good idea to leave paint thinners around.”
Outside, Foul Ole Ron and his dog ambled down the street. And the strange thing was that a conversation was going on, even though there was technically only one person there.
“See? I told you. You just let me do the talkin’, all right?”
“Bugrit.”
“Right. You stick with me and you won’t go far wrong.”
“Bugrit.”
“Really? Well, I spose that’ll have to do. Bark, bark.”
Twelve people lived under the Misbegot Bridge and in a life of luxury, although luxury is not hard to achieve when you define it as something to eat at least once a day and especially when you have such a broad definition of “something to eat.” Technically they were beggars, although they seldom had to beg. Possibly they were thieves, although they only took what had been thrown away, usually by people hurrying to be out of their presence. Outsiders considered that the leader of the group was Coffin Henry, who would have been the city’s champion expectorator if anyone else had wanted the title. But the group had the true democracy of the voteless. There was Arnold Sideways, whose lack of legs only served to give him an extra advantage in any pub fight, where a man with good teeth at groin height had it all his own way. And if it wasn’t for the duck whose presence on his head he consistently denied, the Duck Man would have been viewed as well-spoken and educated and as sane as the next man. Unfortunately, the next man was Foul Ole Ron.
The other eight people were Altogether Andrews.
Altogether Andrews was one man with considerably more than one mind. In a rest state, when he had no particular problem to confront, there was no sign of this except a sort of background twitch and flicker as his features passed randomly under the control of, variously, Jossi, Lady Hermione, Little Sidney, Mr. Viddle, Curly, the Judge, and Tinker; there was also Burke, but the crew had only ever seen Burke once and never wanted to again, so the other seven personalities kept him buried. Nobody in the body answered to the name of Andrews. In the opinion of the Duck Man, who was probably the best in the crew at thinking in a straight line, Andrews had probably been some innocent and hospitable person of a psychic disposition who had simply been overwhelmed by the colonizing souls.
Only among the gentle crew under the bridge could a consensus person like Andrews find an accommodating niche. They’d welcomed him, or them, to the fraternity around the smoky fire. Someone who wasn’t the same person for more than five minutes at a time could fit right in.
One other thing that united the crew—although probably nothing could unite Altogether Andrews—was a readiness to believe that a dog could talk. The group around the smoldering fire believed they had heard a lot of things talk, such as walls. A dog was easy by comparison. Besides, they respected the fact that Gaspode had the sharpest mind of the lot and never drank anything that corroded the container.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” he said. “If you sell thirty of the things, you’ll get a dollar. A whole dollar. Got that?”
“Bugrit.”
“Quack.”
“Haaargghhh…gak!”
“How much is
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