Making Money

money?”
    “But, correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t the IOU the money?”
    “All right then, who owes it to you?”
    “Er…Jack here, because…no, hang on…it is the money, right?”
    Moist grinned as the discussion wobbled back and forth. Whole new theories of money were growing here like mushrooms, in the dark and based on bullshit. But these were men who counted every half-farthing and slept at night with the cash box under their bed. They’d weigh out flour and raisins and rainbow sprinkles with their eyes ferociously focused on the scale’s pointer, because they were men who lived in the margins. If he could get the idea of paper money past them then he was home and, if not dry, then at least merely Moist.
    “So you think these might catch on?” he said, during a lull.
    The consensus was, yes, they could, but should look “fancier,” in the words of Natty Poleforth—“You know, with more fancy lettering and similar.”
    Moist agreed, and handed a note to every man, as a souvenir. It was worth it.
    “And if it all goes wahoonie-shaped,” said Mr. Proust, “you’ve still got the gold, right? Locked up down there in the cellar?”
    “Oh, yes, you’ve got to have the gold,” said Mr. Drayman.
    There was a general murmur of agreement, and Moist felt his spirits slump.
    “But I thought we’d all agreed that you don’t need the gold?” he said. In fact, they hadn’t, but it was worth a try.
    “Ah, yes, but it’s got to be there somewhere,” said Mr. Drayman.
    “It keeps banks honest,” said Mr. Poleforth, in the tone of plonking certainty that is the hallmark of that most knowledgeable of beings, The Man In The Pub.
    “But I thought you understood,” said Moist. “You don’t need the gold!”
    “Right, sir, right,” said Mr. Poleforth soothingly. “Just so long as it’s there.”
    “Er…do you happen to know why it has to be there?” said Moist.
    “Keeps banks honest,” said Mr. Poleforth, on the basis that truth is achieved by repetition. And with nods all round, this was the feeling of Tenth Egg Street. So long as the gold was somewhere, it kept banks honest and everything was okay. Moist felt humbled by such faith. If the gold was somewhere, herons would no longer eat frogs, either. But, in fact, there was no power in the world that could keep a bank honest if it didn’t want to be.
    Still, not a bad start to his first day, even so. He could build on it.
    It began to rain, not hard, but the kind of fine rain where you can almost get away without an umbrella. No cabs bothered to trawl Tenth Egg Street for trade, but there was one at the curb in Losing Street, the horse sagging in the harness, the driver hunched into his greatcoat, the lamps flickering in the dusk. With the rain getting to the blobby, soaking stage, it was a sight for damp feet.
    He hurried over, climbed in, and a voice in the gloom said, “Good evening, Mr. Lipwig. It’s so nice to meet you at last. I’m Pucci. I’m sure we will be friends…”

    “NOW, YOU SEE, that was good,” said Sergeant Colon of the Watch, as the figure of Moist von Lipwig disappeared around the corner, still accelerating. “He went right through the cab window without touching the sides and bounced off that bloke creepin’ up. Very nice roll as he landed, I thought, and he still had hold of the little dog the whole time. Done it before, I shouldn’t wonder. Nevertheless, I’m forced, on balance, to consider him a twit.”
    “The first cab,” said Corporal Nobbs, shaking his head. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I would not have thought it of a man like him.”
    “My point exactly,” said Colon. “When you know you’ve got enemies at large, never, ever get in the first cab. Fact of life. Even things what live under rocks know it.”
    They watched the former creeper gloomily picking up the remains of his iconograph, while Pucci screamed at him from the coach.
    “I bet when the first cab was built, no one dared to get into it, eh, Sarge?” said Nobby happily. “I bet the first cabby used to go home every night starvin’ on account of everyone knowin’, right?”
    “Oh, no, Nobby, people with no enemies at large would be okay, Nobby. Now let’s go and report.”
    “What does it mean ‘at large,’ anyway,” said Nobby as they ambled toward the Chitling Street watch house and the certain prospect of a cup of hot, sweet tea.
    “It means large enemies, Nobby. It’s as clear as the nose on your face. Especially