Snuff

tangle, repeated in the overflowing hedgerows and trees, that made tunnels of shade—which were welcome—and played merry hells with his sense of direction, which was not.
    He had lost all his bearings and was hot and bothered by the time he came out into a long dusty lane with thatched cottages on either side and halfway down a large building which had “pub” written all over it, particularly by the three old men who were sitting on the bench outside it eyeing the approaching Vimes hopefully in case he was the kind of man who would buy another man a pint. They wore clothes that looked as if they had been nailed on. Then, when he got closer, one said something to the other two and they stood up as he passed, index fingers touching their hat brims. One of them said, “Garternoon, yer grace,” a phrase which Vimes interpreted after a little thought. There was also a slight and meaningful tip of the empty tankards to indicate that they were, in fact, empty tankards and therefore an anomaly in need of rectification.
    Vimes knew what was expected of him. There wasn’t a pub in Ankh-Morpork which didn’t have the equivalent three old men sunning themselves outside and ever ready to talk to strangers about the good old days, i.e., when the tankards they were nursing still had beer in them. And the form was that you filled them up with cheap ale and got a “Well, thank you, kind sir,” and quite possibly little bubbles of information about who had been seen where doing what and with whom and when, all grist to the copper’s mill.
    But the expressions on these three changed when another of them whispered hurriedly to his cronies. They pushed themselves back on the wooden seat as if trying to make themselves inconspicuous while still clasping the empty flagons because, well, you never knew. A sign over the door proclaimed that this was the Goblin’s Head.
    Opposite the pub was a large open space laid, as they say, to grass. A few sheep grazed on it and toward the far end was a large stack of wood licker wicker wood hurdles, the purpose of which Vimes could not guess. He was, however, familiar with the term “village green,” although he had never seen one. Ankh-Morpork wasn’t very big on greens.
    The pub smelled of stale beer. This helped as a bulwark against temptation, although Vimes had been clean for years, and could face the occasional sherry at official events, because he hated the taste of it anyway. The smell of antique beer had the same effect. By the pitiful light of the tiny windows Vimes made out an elderly man industriously polishing a tankard. The man looked up at Vimes and gave him a nod, the basic nod which is understood everywhere as meaning “I see you, you see me, it’s up to you what happens next,” although some publicans can put an inflection on a nod which also manages to convey the information that there might just be a two-foot length of lead piping under the counter should the party of the second part want to start anything, as it were.
    Vimes said, “Do you serve anything that isn’t alcoholic?”
    The barman very carefully hung the tankard on a hook over the bar and then looked directly at Vimes and said, without rancor, “Well, you see, sir, this is what we call a pub. People gets stuffy about it if I leaves out the alcohol.” He drummed his fingers on the bar for a moment and went on, uncertainly, “My wife makes root beer, if that takes your fancy?”
    â€œWhat kind of root?”
    â€œBeetroot, as it happens, sir. It’s good for keeping you regular.”
    â€œWell, I’ve always thought of myself as a regular kind of person,” said Vimes. “Give me a pint—no, make that half a pint, thanks.” There was another nod and the man disappeared briefly behind the scenes and came back with a large glass overflowing with red foam. “There you go,” he said, putting it carefully on the bar. “We don’t put it in pewter because it does something to the metal. This one is on the house, sir. My name is Jiminy, landlord of the Goblin’s Head. I dare say I know yours. My daughter is a maid at the big house, and I treat every man alike, the reason being that the publican is a friend to any man with money in his pockets and also, if the whim takes him, perhaps even to those who temporarily find themselves stony broke, which does not, at the moment, include them