Making Money

files in his head.
    “Very well, thank you for asking. Can I get you anything else?” Proust added hopefully, in case Moist might have a sudden recollection that life would be considerably improved by the purchase of a dozen false noses.
    Moist glanced at the array of masks, scary rubber hands, and joke noses, and considered his needs satisfied.
    “Only my change, Jack,” he said, and carefully laid one of his new creations on the counter. “Just give me half a dollar.”
    Proust stared at it as if it might explode or vent some mind-altering gas.
    “What’s this, sir?”
    “A note for a dollar. A dollar bill. It’s the latest thing.”
    “Do I have to sign it or anything?”
    “No, that’s the interesting bit. It’s a dollar. It can be anyone’s.”
    “I’d like it to be mine, thank you!”
    “It is, now,” said Moist. “But you can use it to buy things.”
    “There’s no gold in it,” said the shopkeeper, picking it up and holding it away from his body, just in case.
    “Well, if I paid in pennies and shillings there would be no gold in them either, right? As it is, you’re fifteen pence ahead, and that’s a good place to be, agreed? And that note is worth a dollar. If you take it along to my bank, they’ll give you a dollar for it.”
    “But I’ve already got a dollar! Er…haven’t I?” Proust added.
    “Good man! So why not go out in the street and spend it right now? Come on, I want to see how it works.”
    “Is this like the stamps, Mr. Lipwig?” said Proust, scrambling for something he could understand. “People sometimes pay me in stamps, me doing a lot of mail-order—”
    “Yes! Yes! Exactly! Think of it as a big stamp. Look, I’ll tell you what, this is an introductory offer. Spend that dollar and I’ll give you another bill for a dollar, so that you’ll still have a dollar. So what are you risking?”
    “Only if this is, like, one of the first dollar bills, right…well, my lad bought some of the first stamps you did, right, and now they’re worth a mint, so if I hang on to it, it’ll be worth money someday—”
    “It’s worth money now!” Moist wailed. That was the trouble with slow people. Give him a fool any day. Slow people took some time to catch up, but when they did they rolled right over you.
    “Yes, but, see”—and here the shopkeeper grinned what he probably thought was an artful grin, which, in fact, made him look like Mr. Fusspot halfway through a toffee—“you’re a sly one with them stamps, Mr. Lipwig, bringin’ out different ones all the time. My granny says if it’s true a man’s got enough iron in his blood to make a nail then you’ve got enough brass in your neck to make a doorknob, no offense meant, she speaks her mind does my granny—”
    “I’ve made the mail run on time, haven’t I?”
    “Oh, yes, Gran says you may be a Slippery Jim but you get things done, no doubt about it—”
    “Right! Let’s spend the damn dollar, then, shall we?” Is it some kind of duplex magical power I have, he wondered, that lets old ladies see right through me but like what they see?
    And thus Mr. Proust decided to hazard his dollar in the shop next door, on an ounce of Jolly Sailor pipe tobacco, some mints, and a copy of What Novelty? And Mr. “Natty” Poleforth, once the exercise was explained to him, accepted the note and took it across the road to Mr. Drayman the butcher, who cautiously accepted it, after having things set out fair and square for him, in payment for some sausages and also gave Moist a bone “for your little doggie.” It was more than likely that Mr. Fusspot had never seen a real bone before. He circled it carefully, waiting for it to squeak.
    Tenth Egg Street was a street of small traders who sold small things in small quantities for small sums on small profits. In a street like that, you had to be small-minded. It wasn’t the place for big ideas. You had to look at the detail. These were men who saw far more farthings than dollars.
    Some of the other shopkeepers were already pulling down the shutters and closing up for the day. Drawn by the Ankh-Morporkian’s instinct for something interesting, the traders drifted over to see what was going on. They all knew one another. They all dealt with one another. And everyone knew Moist von Lipwig, the man in the gold suit. The notes were examined with much care and solemn discussion.
    “It’s just an IOU or marker, really.”
    “All right, but supposing you needed the