Going Postal

Stanley was a growing lad. He’d have to know sooner or later.
    “Mind you, I don’t reckon people used to look at the face much,” he said. “They looked more at the…wings.”
    “On his hat and his ankles,” said Stanley. “So he could fly the messages at the speed of…messages.”
    A little bead of sweat dripped off Groat’s forehead.
    “Mostly on his hat and ankles, yes,” he said. “Er…but not only there.”
    Stanley peered at the picture.
    “Oh yes, I never noticed them before. He’s got wings on—”
    “The fig leaf,” said Groat quickly. “That’s what we call it.”
    “Why’s he got a leaf there?” said Stanley.
    “Oh, they all had ’em in the olden days, ’cos of being Classical,” said Groat, relieved to be shifting away from the heart of the matter. “It’s a fig leaf. Off a fig tree.”
    “Har har, the joke’s on them, there’s no fig trees round here!” said Stanley in the manner of one exposing the flaw in a long-held dogma.
    “Yes, lad, very good, but it was a tin one anyway,” said Groat with patience.
    “And the wings?” said the boy.
    “We-ell, I ’spose they thought that the more wings the better,” said Groat.
    “Yes, but ’sposing his hat wings and his ankle wings stopped working, he’d be held up by—”
    “Stanley! It’s just a statue! Don’t get excited! Calm down! You don’t want to upset… them .”
    Stanley hung his head.
    “They’ve been…whispering to me again, Mr. Groat,” he confided in a low voice.
    “Yes, Stanley. They whisper to me, too.”
    “I remember ’em last time, talking in the night, Mr. Groat,” said Stanley, his voice trembling. “I shut my eyes and I kept seeing the writin’…”
    “Yes, Stanley. Don’t worry about it. Try not to think about it. It’s Mr. Lipstick’s fault, stirring them up. Leave well alone, I say. They never listen, and then what happens? They find out the hard way.”
    “It seems like only yesterday, those watchmen drawing that chalk outline round Mr. Mutable,” said Stanley, beginning to tremble. “ He found out the hard way!”
    “Calm down now, calm down,” said Groat, patting him gently on the shoulder. “You’ll set ’em off. Think about pins.”
    “But it’s a cruel shame, Mr. Groat, them never being alive long enough to make you senior postman!”
    Groat sniffed. “Oh, that’s enough of that. That’s not important, Stanley,” he said, his face like thunder.
    “Yes, Mr. Groat, but you’re an old, old man and you’re still only a junior postman—” Stanley persisted.
    “I said that’s enough , Stanley! Now, just raise that lamp again, will you? Good. That’s better. I’ll read a page of the Regulations, that always quietens them down.” Groat cleared his throat. “I shall now read from the Book of Regulations, Delivery Times (Metropolitan) (Sundays and Octadays excepted),” he announced to the air. “As follows:
    “‘The hours by which letters should be put into the receiving houses in town for each delivery within the city walls of Ankh-Morpork are as the following: Overnight by eight o’clock in the evening, for the first delivery. Morning by eight o’clock, for the second delivery. Morning by ten o’clock, for the third delivery. Morning by twelve o’clock, for the fourth delivery. Afternoon by two o’clock, for the fifth delivery. Afternoon by four o’clock, for the sixth delivery. Afternoon by six o’clock, for the seventh delivery.’ These are the hours, and I have read them.”
    Groat hung his head for a moment, and then closed the book with a snap .
    “Why are we doing this, Mr. Groat?” said Stanley meekly.
    “’Cos of hub-riss,” said Mr. Groat. “That’s what it was. Hub-riss killed the Post Office. Hub-riss and greed and Bloody Stupid Johnson and the New Pie.”
    “A pie, Mr. Groat? How could a pie—”
    “Don’t ask, Stanley. It gets complicated and there’s nothing in it about pins.”
    They put out the candles and left.
    When they were gone, a faint whispering started.

CHAPTER 3
    Our Own Hand, Or None
In which our hero discovers the world of pins
• The greengrocer’s apos’trophe • S.W.A.L.K.
• The path of fate • The golem lady • The business
of business and the nature of freedom once again discussed
• Clerk Brian shows enthusiasm
    “R ISE A ND S HINE , Mr. Lipvig. Your Second Day As Postmaster!”
    Moist opened one crusted eye and glared at the golem.
    “Oh, so you’re an alarm clock, too?” he