“Not that small.”
“My word. And that's the Bursar, and this is the Librarian.” Ridcully took a step backward, waved his hands in the air, and silently mouthed the words: Don't Say Monkey.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Shawn, politely.
was a badly painted red, black, and white post across the road.
The coachman sounded his horn.
“What's up?” said Ridcully, leaning out of the window.
“Troll bridge.”
“Whoops.”
After a while there was a booming sound under the bridge, and a troll clambered over the parapet. It was quite overdressed, for a troll. In addition to the statutory loincloth, it was wearing a helmet. Admittedly it had been designed for a human head, and was attached to the much larger troll head by string, but there probably wasn't a better word than “wearing.”
“What's up?” said the Bursar, waking up.
“There's a troll on the bridge,” said Ridcully, “but it's underneath a helmet, so it's probably official and will get into serious trouble if it eats people.[25] Nothing to worry about.”
The Bursar giggled, because he was on the upcurve of whatever switchback his mind was currently riding.
The troll appeared at the coach window.
“Afternoon, your lordships,” it said. “Customs inspection.”
“I don't think we have any,” babbled the Bursar happily. “I mean, we used to have a tradition of rolling boiled eggs downhill on Soul Cake Tuesday, but-”
“I means,” said the troll, “do you have any beer, spirits, wines, liquors, hallucinogenic herbage, or books of a lewd or licentious nature?”
Ridcully pulled the Bursar back from the window.
“No,” he said.
“No?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like some?”
“We haven't even got,” said the Bursar, despite Ridcully's efforts to sit on his head, “any billygoats.”
There are some people that would whistle “Yankee Doodle” in a crowded bar in Atlanta.
Even these people would consider it tactless to mention the word “billygoat” to a troll.
The troll's expression changed very slowly, like a glacier eroding half a mountain. Ponder tried to get under the seat.
“So we'll just trit-trot along, shall we?” said the Bursar, his voice by now slightly muffled.
“He doesn't mean it,” said the Archchancellor quickly. “It's the dried frog talking.”
“You don't want to eat me,” said the Bursar. “You want to eat my brother, he's much mfmfph mfmfph . . .”