The Truth by Terry Pratchett Page B

tied into one length. The other was attached to a small dog of the grayish persuasion. It may have been a terrier. It walked with a limp and also in a kind of oblique fashion, as though it was trying to insinuate its way through the world. It walked like a dog who has long ago learned that the world contains more thrown boots than meaty bones. It walked like a dog that was prepared, at any moment, to run.
    It looked up at William with crusted eyes and said: “Woof.”
    William felt that he ought to stand up for mankind.
    “Sorry about the smell,” he said. Then he stared at the dog.
    “What’s this smell you keep on about?” said Gunilla. The rivets on his helmet were beginning to tarnish.
    “It, er, belongs to Mr…. er…Ron,” said William, stillgiving the dog a suspicious look. “People say it’s glandular.”
    He was sure he’d seen the dog before. It was always in the corner of the picture, as it were—ambling through the streets, or just sitting on a corner, watching the world go by.
    “What does he want?” said Gunilla. “D’you think he wants us to print something?”
    “Shouldn’t think so,” said William. “He’s a sort of beggar. Only they won’t let him in the Beggars’ Guild anymore.”
    “He isn’t saying anything.”
    “Well, usually he just stands there until people give him something to go away. Er…you heard of things like the Welcome Wagon, where various neighbors and traders greet newcomers to an area?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, this is the dark side.”
    Foul Ole Ron nodded, and held out a hand. “’S’right, Mister Push. Don’t try the blarney gobble on me, juggins, I told ’em, I ain’t slanging the gentry, bugrit. Millennium hand and shrimp. Dang.”
    “Woof.”
    William glared at the dog again.
    “Growl,” it said.
    Gunilla scratched somewhere in the recesses of his beard.
    “One thing I already noticed about this here town,” he said, “is that people’ll buy practically anything off a man in the street.”
    He picked up a handful of the news sheets, still damp from the press.
    “Can you understand me, mister?” he said.
    “Bugrit.”
    Gunilla nudged William in the ribs. “Does that mean yes or no, d’you think?”
    “Probably yes.”
    “Okay. Well, see here now, if you sell these things at, oh, twenty pence each, you can keep—”
    “Hey, you can’t sell it that cheap,” said William.
    “Why not?”
    “Why? Because…because…because, well, anyone will be able to read it, that’s why!”
    “Good, ’cos that means anyone’ll be able to pay twenty pence,” said Gunilla calmly. “There’s lots more poor folk than rich folk and it’s easier to get money out of ’em.” He grimaced at Foul Ole Ron. “This may seem a strange question,” he said, “but have you got any friends?”
    “I told ’em! I told ’em! Bug’rem!”
    “Probably yes,” said William. “He hangs out with a bunch of…er…unfortunates that live under one of the bridges. Well, not exactly ‘hangs out.’ More ‘droops.’”
    “Well, now,” said Gunilla, waving the copy of the Times at Ron, “you can tell them that if they can sell these to people for twenty pence each, I’ll let you keep one nice shiny penny.”
    “Yeah? And you can put yer nice shiny penny where the sun don’t shine,” said Ron.
    “Oh, so you—” Gunilla began. William laid a hand on his arm.
    “Sorry, just a minute—What was that you said, Ron?” he said.
    “Bugrit,” said Foul Ole Ron.
    It had sounded like Ron’s voice and it had seemed to come from the general area of Ron’s face, it was just that it had demonstrated a coherence you didn’t often get.
    “You want more than a penny?” said William carefully.
    “Got to be worth five pence a time,” said Ron. More or less.
    For some reason William’s gaze was dragged down to the small gray dog. It returned it amiably and said “Woof?”
    He looked back up again.
    “Are you all right, Foul Ole Ron?” he said.
    “Gottle