Snuff by Terry Pratchett

Ramkin tidied up after himself,” said Vimes.
    The tour continued, across meadows of what Vimes decided to call cows and around fields of standing corn. They navigated their way around a ha-ha, kept their distance from the ho-ho and completely ignored the he-he, then climbed a gentle path up a hill on which was planted a grove of beech trees and from which you could see practically everywhere, and certainly to the end of the universe, but that probably involved looking straight up with no beech trees in the way. It was even possible to make out the tall cloud of smoke and fumes that rose from the city of Ankh-Morpork.
    â€œThis is Hangman’s Hill,” said Willikins, as Vimes got his breath back. “And you might not want to go any further,” he said as they neared the summit, “unless, that is, you want to explain to your young lad what a gibbet is.”
    Vimes looked questioningly at his servant. “Really?”
    â€œWell, as I say, this is Hangman’s Hill. Why do you think they named it that, sir? ‘Black Jack’ Ramkin was regrettably mistaken when he made an enormous drunken wager with one of his equally drunk drinking pals that he could see the smoke of the city from his estate. He was told by a surveyor, who had tested the hypothesis, that the hill was thirty feet too short. Pausing only to attempt to bribe the surveyor and when unsuccessful to subsequently horsewhip the same, he rallied all the working men from this estate and all the others round here and set them to raise the hill by the aforesaid thirty feet, a most ambitious project. It cost a fortune, of course, but every family in the district probably got warm winter clothes and new boots out of it. It made him very popular, and of course he won his bet.”
    Vimes sighed. “Somehow I think I know the answer to this, but I’m going to ask anyway: how much was the bet?”
    â€œTwo gallons of brandy,” said Willikins triumphantly, “which he drank in one go while standing on this very spot, to the cheers of the assembled workforce, and then, according to legend, rolled all the way down to the bottom, to more cheers.”
    â€œEven when I was a boozer I don’t think I could have taken two gallons of brandy,” said Vimes. “That’s twelve bottles!”
    â€œWell, toward the end I expect a lot of it went down his trousers, one way or the other. There were plenty like him, even so…”
    â€œAll down his trousers,” Young Sam piped up, and dissolved into that curious hoarse laughter of a six-year-old who thinks he has heard something naughty. And by the sound of it the workmen who had cheered the old drunk had thought the same way. Cheering a man drinking a year’s wages in one go? What was the point?
    Willikins must have read his thoughts. “The country isn’t as subtle as the city, commander. They like big and straightforward things here, and Black Jack was as big and as straight as you could hope for. That’s why they liked him, because they knew where they stood, even if he was about to fall down. I bet they boasted about him all over the Shires. I can just imagine it. Our drunken old lord can outdrink your drunken old lord any day of the week , and they would be proud of it. I’m sure you thought you were doing the right thing when you shook hands with the gardener, but you puzzled people. They don’t know what to make of you. Are you a man or a master? Are you a nob or one of them? Because, commander, from where they sit no man can be both. It would be against nature. And the countryside doesn’t like puzzles, either.”
    â€œBig puzzled trousers!” said Young Sam and fell on the grass, overwhelmed with humor.
    â€œI don’t know what to make of me either,” said Vimes, picking up his son and following Willikins down the slope. “But Sybil does. She’s got me marked down for balls, dances, dinners, and, oh yes,