'I think you're goin' to need a lot more than that.'
I am going to need a lot more than that, thought Trev, travelling at speed across the city. If even Pepe knew there was something on the boil, then surely the Old Sam would know too? Oops.
He sprinted quickly to the horse bus's rear platform and landed in the road before the conductor was anywhere near. If they didn't catch you on the bus then they couldn't catch you at all, and while they were issued with those big shiny choppers to deter non-paying passengers, everyone knew that a) they were too scared to use them and b) the amount of trouble they would get into if they actually whacked a respectable member of society did not bear thinking of.
He darted through the alley into Cockbill Street, spotted another bus plodding its way in the right direction, jumped on to the running board and held on. He was lucky this time. The conductor gave him a look and then very carefully did not see him.
By the time he reached the big junction known as Five Ways, he had travelled almost the width of the city at an average speed faster than walking pace and had hardly had to run very far at all. A near perfect result for Trev Likely, who wouldn't walk if he could ride.
And there, right in front of him, was the Hippo. It used to be a racetrack until all that was moved up to the far end of Ankh. Now, it was just a big space that every large town needs for markets, fairs, the occasional insurrection and, of course, the increasingly popular cart-tail sales, which were very fashionable with people who wanted to buy their property back.
It was full today, without even a stolen shovel to be seen. All over the field, people were kicking footballs about. Trevor relaxed a little. There were pointy hats in the distance and no one seemed to be doing any murder.
'Wotcher, howya doing?'
He adjusted his eyeline down a little bit. 'How's it goin', Throat?'
'I'm hearing you're kind of associated with Unseen Academicals,' said Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the city's most enterprising but inexplicably least successful businessman.
'Don't tell me you've come to sell pies?'
'Nah, nah, nah,' said Dibbler. 'Too many amateurs here today. My pies aren't just knocked up out of rubbish for a load of drunken old football fans.'
'So your pies are for - ?' Trev left the question hanging in the air with a noose on the end of it.
'Anyway, pies are so yesterday,' said Dibbler dismissively. 'I am on the ground floor of football memorabilityness.'
'What's that, then?'
'Like genuine autographed team jerseys and that sort of thing. I mean, look here.' Dibbler produced from the large tray around his neck a smaller version of what one of the new gloing! gloing! footballs would be if it were about a half of the size and had been badly carved out of wood. 'See those white patches? That's so they can be signed by the team.'
'You're goin' to get them signed, are you?'
'Well, no, I think people would like to get that done themselves. The personal touch, you know what I mean?'
'So they're actually just painted balls of wood and nothin' else?' said Trev.
'But authentic!' said Dibbler. 'Just like the shirts. Want one? Five dollars to you, and that's cutting me own throat.' He produced a skimpy red cotton item and waved it enticingly.
'What's that?'
'Your team colours, right?'
'Two big yellow Us on the front?' said Trev. 'That's wrong! Ours has got two little Us interlocked on the left breast like a badge. Very stylish.'
'Pretty much the same,' said Dibbler airily. 'No one'll notice. And I had to keep the price down for the kiddies.'
He leaned closer. 'Anything you can tell me about the game tomorrow, Trev? Looks like the teams are putting together a tough squad. Vetinari's not going to get it all his own way for once?'
'We'll play a good game, you'll see,' said Trev.
'Right! Can't lose with a Likely playing, right?'
'I just help around the place. I'm not playin'. I promised my ol' mum after Dad died.'
Dibbler looked around at the crowded stadium of the Hippo. He appeared to have something else on his mind other than the need for the next dollar. 'What happens if your lot lose?' he said.
'It's only a game,' said Trev.