Going Postal

Moist had just been found adhering to the sole of her shoe. He returned it with a chilly one of his own.
    “Young man, his condition is extremely critical!” she snapped. “I refuse to release him!”
    “Madam, illness is not a crime!” said Moist. “People are not released from hospital, they are discharged !”
    The matron drew herself up and out, and gave Moist a smile of triumph.
    “That, young man, is hwhat we are afraid of!”

    M OIST WAS SURE doctors kept skeletons around to cow patients. Nyer, nyer, we know what you look like underneath… He quite approved, though. He felt a certain fellow feeling. Places like the Lady Sybil were still very rare these days, but Moist felt certain he could make a profitable career out of wearing a white robe, using long, learned names for ailments like “runny nose,” and looking solemnly at things in bottles.
    On the other side of the desk, a Dr. Lawn—he had his name on a plate on his desk, because doctors are very busy and can’t remember everything—looked up from his notes on Tolliver Groat.
    “It was quite interesting, Mr. Lipwig. It was the first time I’ve ever had to operate to remove the patient’s clothing,” he said. “You don’t happen to know what the poultice was made of, do you? He wouldn’t tell us.”
    “I believe it’s layers of flannel, goose grease, and bread pudding,” said Moist, staring around at the office.
    “Bread pudding? Really bread pudding?”
    “Apparently so,” said Moist.
    “Not something alive, then? It seemed leathery to us,” said the doctor, leafing through the notes. “Ah, yes, here we are. Yes, his trousers were the subject of a controlled detonation after one of his socks exploded. We’re not sure why.”
    “He fills them with sulfur and charcoal to keep his feet fresh, and he soaks his trousers in saltpeter to prevent Gnats,” said Moist. “He’s a great believer in natural medicine, you see. He doesn’t trust doctors.”
    “Really?” said Dr. Lawn. “He retains some vestige of sanity, then. Incidentally, it’s best not to argue with the nursing staff. I find the best course of action is to throw some chocolates in one direction and hurry off in the other while their attention is distracted. Mr. Groat thinks that every man is his own physician, I gather?”
    “He makes his own medicines,” Moist explained. “He starts every day with a quarter of a pint of gin mixed with spirits of niter, flour of sulfur, juniper, and the juice of an onion. He says it clears the tubes.”
    “Good heavens, I’m sure it does. Does he smoke at all?”
    Moist considered this. “No-o. It looks more like steam,” he said.
    “And his background in basic alchemy is…?”
    “Nonexistent, as far as I know,” said Moist. “He makes some interesting cough sweets, though. After you’ve sucked them for two minutes you can feel the wax running out of your ears. He paints his knees with some sort of compound of iodine and—”
    “Enough!” said the doctor. “Mr. Lipwig, there are times when we humble practitioners of the craft of medicine have to stand aside in astonishment. Quite a long way aside, in the case of Mr. Groat, and preferably behind a tree. Take him away, please. I have to say that, against all the odds, I found him amazingly healthy. I can quite see why an attack by a banshee would be so easily shrugged off. In fact, Mr. Groat is probably unkillable by any normal means, although I advise you not to let him take up tap dancing. Oh, and do take his wig, will you? We tried putting it in a cupboard, but it got out. We’ll send the bill to the Post Office, shall we?”
    “I thought this said ‘free hospital’ on the sign,” said Moist.
    “Broadly, yes, broadly,” said Dr. Lawn. “But those on whom the gods have bestowed so many favors—one hundred and fifty thousand of them, I heard—probably have had all the charity they require, hmm?”
    And it’s all sitting in the Watch’s cells , thought Moist. He reached into his jacket and produced a crumpled wad of green Ankh-Morpork one-dollar stamps.
    “Will you take these?” he said.

    T HE PICTURE of Tiddles being carried out of the Post Office by Moist von Lipwig was, since it concerned an animal, considered to be full of human interest by the Times and was thus displayed prominently on the front page.
    Reacher Gilt looked at it without displaying so much as a flicker of emotion. Then he reread the story next to it, under the headlines:

    MAN