Going Postal

childish playground of pins right behind me, sir! The world of stamps, which can teach a young man much about history and geography as well as being a healthy, enjoyable, engrossing, and thoroughly worthwhile hobby that will give him an interest that will last a lifetime, has opened up before me and—”
    “Yes, yes, thank you!” said Moist.
    “—and I’m putting thirty dollars into the pot, sir. All my savings. Just to show we support you.”
    Moist heard all the words, but had to wait for them to make sense.
    “Pot?” he said at last. “You mean like a bet?”
    “Yes, sir. A big bet,” said Stanley happily. “About you racing the clacks to Genua. People think that’s funny. A lot of the bookmakers are offering odds, sir, so Mr. Groat is organizing it, sir! He said the odds aren’t good, though.”
    “I shouldn’t think they are,” said Moist weakly. “No one in their right mind would—”
    “He said we’d only win one dollar for every eight we bet, sir, but we reckoned—”
    Moist shot upright. “Eight to one odds on ?” he shouted. “The bookies think I’m going to win ? How much are you all betting?”
    “Er…about one thousand two hundred dollars at the last count, sir. Is that—”
    Pigeons rose from the roof at the sound of Moist von Lipwig’s scream.
    “ Fetch Mr. Groat right now! ”

    I T WAS A TERRIBLE THING to see guile on the face of Mr. Groat. The old man tapped the side of his nose.
    “You’re the man that got money out o’ a bunch of gods, sir!” he said, grinning happily.
    “Yes,” said Moist desperately. “But supposing I—I just did that with a trick…”
    “Damn good trick, sir,” the old man cackled. “ Damn good. A man who could trick money out of the gods’d be capable of anything, I should think!”
    “Mr. Groat, there is no way a coach can get to Genua faster than a clacks message. It’s two thousand miles!”
    “Yes, I realize you’ve got to say that, sir. Walls have ears, sir. Mum’s the word. But we all had a talk, and we reckoned you’ve been very good to us, sir, you really believe in the Post Office, sir, so we thought it’s time to put our money in our mouth, sir!” said Groat, and now there was a touch of defiance.
    Moist gaped once or twice. “You mean ‘where your mouth is’?”
    “You’re the man who knows a trick or three, sir! The way you just went into the newspaper and said, we’ll race you! Reacher Gilt walked right into your trap, sir!”
    Glass into diamond , thought Moist. He sighed. “All right, Mr. Groat. Thank you. Eight to one on, eh?”
    “We were lucky to get it, sir. They went up to ten to one on, then they closed the books. All they’re accepting now is bets on how you’ll win, sir.”
    Moist perked up a little.
    “Any good ideas?” he asked.
    “I’ve got a one-dollar bet on ‘by dropping fire from the sky,’ sir. Er…you wouldn’t like to give me a hint, p’raps?”
    “Please go and get on with your work, Mr. Groat,” said Moist severely.
    “Yessir, of course, sir, sorry I asked, sir,” said Groat, and crabbed off.
    Moist put his head in his hands.
    I wonder if it’s like this for mountain climbers , he thought. You climb bigger and bigger mountains, and you know that one day one of them’s going to be just that bit too steep. But you go on doing it, because it’s so-oo good when you breathe the air up there. And you know you’ll die falling .

    H OW COULD PEOPLE be so stupid? They seemed to cling to ignorance because it smelled familiar. Reacher Gilt sighed.
    He had an office in the Tump Tower. He didn’t like it much, because the whole place shook to the movement of the semaphore, but it was necessary for the look of the thing. It did have an unrivaled view of the city, though. And the site alone was worth what they’d paid for the Trunk.
    “It takes the best part of two months to get to Genua by coach,” he said, staring across the rooftops to the palace. “He might be able to shave something off that, I suppose. The clacks takes a few hours. What is there about this that frightens you?”
    “So what’s his game?” said Greenyham. The rest of the board sat around the table, looking worried.
    “I don’t know,” said Gilt. “I don’t care.”
    “But the gods are on his side, Reacher,” said Nutmeg.
    “Let’s talk about that, shall we?” said Gilt. “Does that claim strike anyone else as odd? The gods are not generally known for no-frills gifts, are they? Especially