The Fifth Elephant

to the Watch and it was time, he thought, for it to give him a week. Or two. Three at the outside.
    In fact, he realized, as pangs went it was barely a ping which was, he recalled, a dialect word for watermeadow. Right now he could see a future, which was more than he’d ever had before.
    He locked the door and went back to bed.

    On a clear day, from the right vantage point on the Ramtops, a watcher could see a very long way across the plains.
    The dwarfs had harnessed mountain streams and built a staircase of locks that rose a mile up from the rolling grasslands, for the use of which they charged not just a pretty penny but a very handsome dollar. Barges were always ascending or descending, making their way down to the river Smarl and the cities of the plain. They carried coal, iron, fireclay, pig treacle * and fat, the dull ingredients of the pudding of civilization.
    In the sharp, thin air they took several days to get out of sight. On a clear day, you could see next Wednesday.
    The captain of one of the barges waiting for the top lock went to tip the dregs of his teapot over the side and saw a small dog sitting on the snowy bank. It sat up and begged, hopefully.
    He turned to go back into the cabin when he thought: What a nice little doggie.
    It was such a clear thought that it almost seemed to him that he was hearing it, but he looked around and there was no one else near him. And dogs certainly couldn’t talk.
    He heard himself think: “This little doggie would be very useful keepin’ down rats that might attack the cargo, sort of fing.”
    It must have been him that thought it, he decided. There was no one else nearby, and everyone knew dogs didn’t talk.
    He said aloud, “But rats don’t eat coal, do they?”
    He thought, clear as day: “Ah, well, you never know when they might try, right? Anyway, it’s such a sweet looking little doggie that’s been strugglin’ for days through deep snow, huh, not that anyone cares.”
    The bargeman gave up. There’s only so long you can argue with yourself.
    Ten minutes later the barge was on the long drop to the plains, with a small dog sitting at the prow, enjoying the breeze.
    On the whole, thought Gaspode, it was always best to look to the future.

    Nobby Nobbs had made himself a shelter up against the wall of the Watch House, and was gloomily warming his hands when a shadow loomed over him.
    “What are you doing, Nobby?” said Carrot.
    “Huh? Captain? ”
    “There’s no one on the gates, there’s no one on patrol…Didn’t anyone get my message? What’s happening?”
    Nobby licked his lips.
    “We-ell,” he said. “There isn’t…well, there isn’t a Watch at the moment. Not per say .” He flinched. He saw Angua behind Carrot. “Er…Mister Vimes with you, at all?”
    “What is happening , Nobby?”
    “Well…you see …Fred kind of…and then he got all sort of…then next thing you know he was setting for to…and then we…and then he wouldn’t come out…and then we…and he nailed up the door…and Mrs. Fred came and shouted at him through the letter box…and most of the lads have gone off and got other jobs…and now there’s just me and Dorfl and Reg and Washpot, and we come here turn and turn about and we shove food through the letter box for him…and…that’s it, really…”
    “Can we have that again with the gaps filled in?” said Carrot.
    This took considerably longer. There were still gaps. Carrot forced them open.
    “I see ,” he said at last.
    “Mister Vimes is going to go spare, isn’t he,” said Nobby miserably.
    “I wouldn’t worry about Mister Vimes,” said Angua. “Not at the moment.”
    Carrot was looking up at the front door. It was thick oak. There were bars at all the windows.
    “Go and fetch Constable Dorfl, Nobby,” he said.
    Ten minutes later the Watch House had a new doorway. Carrot stepped over the wreckage and led the way upstairs.
    Fred Colon was hunched in the chair, staring fixedly at one solitary sugar lump.
    “Be careful,” whispered Angua. “He might be in a rather fragile mental state.”
    “That’s very likely,” said Carrot. He leaned down and whispered: “Fred?”
    “Mm?” murmured Colon.
    “On your feet, Sergeant! Am I ’urtin’ you? I ought to be, I’m standing’ on your beard! You’ve got five minutes to wash and shave and be back here with shinin’ mornin’ face! On your feet! To the washroom! Abou-ut turn! At the double! One-two-one-two!”
    It seemed to Angua