Metal
It wasn't exactly a tub.
When one thinks of a bath tub, there is the assumption that the occupant could at least recline in one form or another. The tub-like thing made out of some kind of pounded metal was the size of a wash basin. It barely had room for a small man to sit upright without having to sit on his feet. Reclining in the water was out of the question.
That was another problem. The water wasn't exactly clean to begin with.
Bath tubs tended to have clean water poured in and then, after the bather had wallowed for a bit, scrubbed between the toes and displaced the grime of weeks, months or, in the case of C.M.O.T. Dibbler, years, dirty water was left behind.
In Dibbler's case, it was clear from the beginning that when he was through, what he'd leave behind was water only slightly dirtier than it had been when he started. He'd hauled it out of the Ankh, which was less a river than a convenient municipal sewer. Billions of dangerous micro-organisms teemed in the sepia water but Dibbler, like most people on the Discworld, didn't believe in anything smaller than the eye could see. And everybody knows what you don't believe in can't hurt you.
That day, things were looking up in the Dibbler household, a cellar near the Shades. The household consisted of Cut-me-own-throat Dibbler, a family of gray rats in the small, unused oven, and a large colony of cockroaches behind the walls. That was more than enough responsibility for an honest tradesman trying to earn an honest living on the streets of Ankh-Morpork. Due to space constraints, the wash basin contained only Dibbler. The rats and cockroaches had to be content to watch.
Before Mama Dibbler – gods rest her soul – passed away some years ago, she urged her son with her dying breath to bathe at least once a year. Throat the dutiful son had promised.
Since then, what with the price of coal and the scarcity of clean water and the taxes and overhead and miserable interest rates, Dibbler hadn't really found it financially feasible to hold to his promise.
Until now.
Things were looking up.
Earlier that day, he'd succeeded in selling the Contract Bridge. It had been a pet project of his for some years, the location of a tourist gullible enough to put money down on a piece of immovable masonry. Said tourist was a mad playboy from Istanzia who, after the transaction, promptly attacked the bridge pilings with a pick axe. By the time the Watch showed up, Dibbler had disappeared.
And so, with a pocket full of goodness, he'd cut a winding path through the streets, shooting shifty looks at anybody who might want to relieve him of his jingling fortune. This pre-emptive evasive action had led him to the real reason things were looking up in the Dibbler household.
The soap was barely a sliver, thin enough to see through, and Dibbler used it sparingly, dabbing it a bit on his toast rack chest, again on his face, then in his stringy hair. He leaned back as much as he could against the side of the basin and started rubbing the soap in.
"Do I hear one dollar? One dollar? One dollar?" he said carefully.
He cleared his throat, said "dollardollardollardollar" over and over again to test the acoustics in his cellar, and tried again.
"Do-I-hear-one-dollar-one-dollar-one-dollar-one-dollar…"
The dirt on his chest was displaced in the bit of soap and water Dibbler was absently rubbing in, and it was soon apparent that underneath the grime, Dibbler was still the color of the special sauce at Harga's House of Ribs. It was the deep-down grime of a lifetime.
After taking a long breath, he launched again into his chant.
"DoIhearonedollaronedollaronedollaronedollar…"
He grinned, which revealed one of the reasons the rats were so comfortable living with him.
"…onedollaronedollar-Two!-DoIheartwofiftytwofiftytwofifty-Twofifty!-Thankyou,sir-DoIhavethree…"
The real reason things were looking up in the Dibbler household was that Dibbler had found his true calling. This doesn't happen to everyone; many people wander through life doing whatever comes along. Dibbler was a natural businessman. But, he'd thought when he heard the siren sound of prices chanted over the breeze outside a house widdershins of the river, he was a born auctioneer.
He'd wandered into the auction house like a man stunned, his billowing overcoat slouching off his body, his usually active fingers slack at his sides. Everything glittered. Carpets from faraway Klatch. Chandeliers from Ephebie. Delicately carved cherry wood tables from Pseudopolis. Paintings. Vases. Statues. It was everything Dibbler could do to keep from fainting straightaway.
And the chanting! He'd stared open-mouthed at the well-dressed man in front of about fifty people, the man with the gavel who had a tongue like fiscal lightening.
Dibbler watched until a woman in the back row of chairs turned around, peered at him through her spectacles and said loudly, "Heeyah, hahve you evah bathed?"
It stopped the auction. All heads turned to stare at Dibbler, who gave everyone a small wave. Shortly, he was escorted out of the house.
But the seed had been planted. As he gathered the articles necessary for a bath, his mind had been filled with the heady thought of setting up an auction of his own. An auction for the people. On Sator Square maybe, to get the wizard customer base. He could get people to put things up for auction with him, and he'd keep a portion of the sales. It was brilliant. He'd make a million by Hogswatch.
Dibbler wriggled his toes happily and pretended he had a gavel in his hand.
"Threedollarsthreedollarsthreedollarsthreedollars…SOLD!"