'Are you poised for the exciting new millennium that lies before us, Drumknott? Are you ready to grasp the future with a willing hand?'
'I don't know, my lord. Is special clothing required?'
The other lodgers were already at the breakfast table when William hurried down. He was hurrying because Mrs Arcanum had Views about people who were late for meals.
Mrs Arcanum, proprietress of Mrs Eucrasia Arcanum's Lodging House for Respectable Working Men, was what Sacharissa was unconsciously training to be. She wasn't just respectable, she was Respectable; it was a lifestyle, religion and hobby combined. She liked respectable people who were Clean and Decent; she used the phrase as if it was impossible to be one without being the other. She kept respectable beds and cooked cheap but respectable meals for her respectable lodgers, who apart from William were mostly middle-aged, unmarried and extremely sober. They were mainly craftsmen in small trades, and were almost all heavily built, well-scrubbed, owned serious boots and were clumsily polite at the dining table.
Oddly enough - or, at least, oddly enough to William's expectations of people like Mrs Arcanum - she wasn't averse to dwarfs and trolls. At least, the clean and decent ones. Mrs Arcanum rated Decency above species.
'It says here fifty-six people were hurt in a brawl,' said Mr Mackleduff, who by dint of being the longest-surviving lodger acted as a kind of president at mealtimes. He had bought a copy of the Times on his way home from the bakery, where he was night-shift foreman.
'Fancy,' said Mrs Arcanum.
'I think it must have been five or six,' said William.
'Says fifty-six here,' said Mr Mackleduff sternly. 'In black and white.'
'It must be right,' said Mrs Arcanum, to general agreement, 'otherwise they wouldn't let them put it in.'
'I wonder who's doing it?' said Mr Prone, who travelled in wholesale boots and shoes.
'Oh, they'd be special people for doing this,' said Mr Mackleduff.
'Really?' said William.
'Oh, yes,' said Mr Mackleduff, who was one of those large men who were instantly expert on anything. They wouldn't allow just anyone to write what they like. That stands to reason.'
So it was in a thoughtful mood that William made his way to the shed behind the Bucket.
Goodmountain looked up from the stone where he was carefully setting the type for a playbill.
'There's a spot of cash for you over there,' he said, nodding to a bench.
It was mostly in coppers. It was almost thirty dollars.
William stared at it. This can't be right,' he whispered.
'Mr Ron and his friends kept coming back for more,' said Goodmountain.
'But... but it was only usual stuff,' said William. 'It wasn't even anything very important. Just... stuff that happened.'
'Ah, well, people like to know about stuff that happened,' said the dwarf. 'And I reckon we can sell three times as many tomorrow if we halve the price.'
'Halve the price?'
'People like to be in the know. Just a thought.' The dwarf grinned again. There's a young lady in the back room.'
In the days when this place had been a laundry, back in the pre-rocking-horse age, one area had been partitioned off with some cheap panelling to waist height, to segregate the clerks and the person whose job it was to explain to customers where their socks had gone. Sacharissa was sitting primly on a stool, clutching her handbag to her with her elbows close to her sides in order to expose herself to as little of the grime as possible.
She gave him a nod.
Now, why had he asked her to come along? Oh, yes... she was sensible, more or less, and did her grandfather's books and, frankly, William didn't meet many literate people. He met the sort to whom a pen was a piece of difficult machinery. If she knew what an apostrophe was, he could put up with the fact that she acted as if she was living in a previous century.
'Is this your office now?' she whispered.
'I suppose so.'
'You didn't tell me about the dwarfs!'