Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Still Ankh-Morpork::
Sherlock Holmes disentangled himself from the remains of the collapsed chair, rearranging himself
so he sat cross-legged on the dismembered seat, facing Gaspode.
"Speak," Holmes said, simply.
"Har-de-har-har," Gaspode groused, "I bet it took you three whole seconds to come up with that
one." He plopped down on his haunches. "An absolute laugh riot."
"I fear I left my sense of humour in London. Now did you or did you not witness anything of
significance in the alley off Gleam Street?"
"All right, all right. Since you're obviously some kind of detective or something. I gotta warn ya
- you're not gonna understand some of the details."
"I shall be the judge of that."
Gaspode sighed. "I was out walking my human - you see, you've got that baffled look on your
face already!"
"I'm sure I'll understand, given time. Continue."
"I was out walking my human - mixed-breed beggar named Foul Ole Ron, you may have met
him."
"I don't recall that I have."
"Oh, you'd remember him - trust me. Anyway, I saw this guy wandering around by the Times
offices."
"Describe him for me."
"He wasn't all that tall, as humans go - I'd say about like that wizard you got upstairs, but it's
hard to tell from down here - and he wasn't local."
"How can you tell?"
Gaspode shrugged. "He didn't smell local - I knew it, you've got that look on your face again.
Look - I could tell he wasn't local just like I can tell you're not local. Ankh-Morpork gets in your
pores, you know?"
"I believe it." Holmes looked like he meant every word.
"And he was dressed like an out-of-towner, too - my guess is Genua or someplace like that. His
clothes were all different colours like a rainbow got sick on him."
"I wasn't aware dogs could perceive colours."
"Most of us can't. Gotta love magical radiation, huh?"
"Was he wearing anything unusual?"
"Yeah - a pair of gloves - all sparkly like they were made of gold. Now I says to Ron, Those are
some neat-looking gloves - he's just asking to get mugged, wearing gloves like that. And sure
enough, along comes this Thief up the alley towards Gleam Street. I could smell him - probably a
student or something. So I tell Ron to stay back while I see how this goes down, and Ron stays
while I follow the chap with the gloves. Maybe he had some scraps on him or something. The
wind was in our favour, fortunately - otherwise this woulda been different."
"What has the wind to do with it?" Holmes asked.
"We were downwind. That meant anyone for three blocks *behind* Ron would know he was
there, but Mr Golden Gloves didn't, not yet anyway. So the Thief reaches out from the alley and
grabs Mr Golden Gloves and drags him into the alley, and Mr Golden Gloves fights like hell, but
Mr Thief gets hold of one of those gloves and pulls it off, and the muggee loses his balance and
falls down. And when he puts his hands out to break his fall - bamf!"
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Bamf?"
"Bamf!" Gaspode repeated proudly.
"Explain to me the concept behind bamf."
Gaspode deflated slightly. "The hand that used to have the glove on it touches some of the
cobbles, and they turn into gold. There was a mouse there too that I guess got brushed, and it got
changed too."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. Now, the guy gets up - turning a cockroach and a few bricks in one of the walls as
he gets his balance, and the Thief has seen all the bamf going on and of course *he* can't believe
his greedy little eyes. But the guy wants his glove back, of course, and he grabs the Thief before
he can make up his mind to run off. Oops, wrong hand."
"Bamf again?"
"Big Bamf. As in one Thief-sized bamf, left standing there in the alley. Now Golden Gloves, he
looks like he's about to wet himself panicking, and he just runs off."
"You understand, of course, that where I come from this is certainly a fantastic tale."
"You want proof?" Gaspode demanded, "Angua made Ron wait outside, but *he's* got your
proof. After Golden Gloves runs off, *we* went in and grabbed the mouse and the cockroach."
Holmes turned to Angua. "Would you allow Gaspode to go retrieve those items? They would be
most benificial."
"Well, we kept the mouse, anyway," Gaspode scowled, "Ron gave the cockroach to Queen Molly
- he's still trying to get in the Beggar's Guild."
"Who is Queen Molly?"
"Duh - the Guildmistress of the Beggars."
"Very well - go and retrieve the mouse for me, and I may wish to speak with Ron as well."
"Got a head cold?" Gaspode asked brightly.
"Not that I am aware," Holmes replied.
"I suggest you develop one before you talk to Ron. He isn't called Foul for nothing."
As Gaspode waddled off, Holmes glanced up at Angua, then seemed to remember his manners
and got to his feet.
"So - what do you think, Mr. Holmes?" she asked him as he brushed the dust from his clothing.
"I think I'm still in London in the throes of a delirious ague, but that obviously has no bearing on
the case at hand."
"I've never seen anyone handle Gaspode like that - usually people just don't believe he can talk."
"This is a novelty for myself as well - seldom do I find a direct witness to an event I'm
investigating, never have I encountered a mystery of this calibre - and never before have I
interviewed a dog. I can only assume he makes a reliable witness."
"Well, nothing that you can bring before a court of law."
"I assumed not. It would be difficult to cross-examine him - ah, here he comes again."
Gaspode made his way down the stairs with his prize, padded up to Holmes [overgrown toenails
clicking on the stone floor], and sat down in front of him. Holmes crouched down and held his
hand out under Gaspode's mouth. Gaspode dropped the object in question.
Holmes held it up to the light. It was, indeed, a perfectly rendered golden mouse, from its
delicate gold-filament whiskers to its tiny claws, frozen in a startled pose with its back arched and
its head turned to one side and its whiskers flared out. Its eyes were little chips of amber.
"Remarkable... even the fur is still soft." Holmes patted Gaspode on the head. "Good boy,
Gaspode."
Gaspode grumbled at being patted on the head and called a Good Boy by any human, then got a
baffled look on his face and glared back at his traitorous tail, wagging furiously.
*****
End of Part 15.
*****
::Still Ankh-Morpork::
Sherlock Holmes disentangled himself from the remains of the collapsed chair, rearranging himself
so he sat cross-legged on the dismembered seat, facing Gaspode.
"Speak," Holmes said, simply.
"Har-de-har-har," Gaspode groused, "I bet it took you three whole seconds to come up with that
one." He plopped down on his haunches. "An absolute laugh riot."
"I fear I left my sense of humour in London. Now did you or did you not witness anything of
significance in the alley off Gleam Street?"
"All right, all right. Since you're obviously some kind of detective or something. I gotta warn ya
- you're not gonna understand some of the details."
"I shall be the judge of that."
Gaspode sighed. "I was out walking my human - you see, you've got that baffled look on your
face already!"
"I'm sure I'll understand, given time. Continue."
"I was out walking my human - mixed-breed beggar named Foul Ole Ron, you may have met
him."
"I don't recall that I have."
"Oh, you'd remember him - trust me. Anyway, I saw this guy wandering around by the Times
offices."
"Describe him for me."
"He wasn't all that tall, as humans go - I'd say about like that wizard you got upstairs, but it's
hard to tell from down here - and he wasn't local."
"How can you tell?"
Gaspode shrugged. "He didn't smell local - I knew it, you've got that look on your face again.
Look - I could tell he wasn't local just like I can tell you're not local. Ankh-Morpork gets in your
pores, you know?"
"I believe it." Holmes looked like he meant every word.
"And he was dressed like an out-of-towner, too - my guess is Genua or someplace like that. His
clothes were all different colours like a rainbow got sick on him."
"I wasn't aware dogs could perceive colours."
"Most of us can't. Gotta love magical radiation, huh?"
"Was he wearing anything unusual?"
"Yeah - a pair of gloves - all sparkly like they were made of gold. Now I says to Ron, Those are
some neat-looking gloves - he's just asking to get mugged, wearing gloves like that. And sure
enough, along comes this Thief up the alley towards Gleam Street. I could smell him - probably a
student or something. So I tell Ron to stay back while I see how this goes down, and Ron stays
while I follow the chap with the gloves. Maybe he had some scraps on him or something. The
wind was in our favour, fortunately - otherwise this woulda been different."
"What has the wind to do with it?" Holmes asked.
"We were downwind. That meant anyone for three blocks *behind* Ron would know he was
there, but Mr Golden Gloves didn't, not yet anyway. So the Thief reaches out from the alley and
grabs Mr Golden Gloves and drags him into the alley, and Mr Golden Gloves fights like hell, but
Mr Thief gets hold of one of those gloves and pulls it off, and the muggee loses his balance and
falls down. And when he puts his hands out to break his fall - bamf!"
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Bamf?"
"Bamf!" Gaspode repeated proudly.
"Explain to me the concept behind bamf."
Gaspode deflated slightly. "The hand that used to have the glove on it touches some of the
cobbles, and they turn into gold. There was a mouse there too that I guess got brushed, and it got
changed too."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. Now, the guy gets up - turning a cockroach and a few bricks in one of the walls as
he gets his balance, and the Thief has seen all the bamf going on and of course *he* can't believe
his greedy little eyes. But the guy wants his glove back, of course, and he grabs the Thief before
he can make up his mind to run off. Oops, wrong hand."
"Bamf again?"
"Big Bamf. As in one Thief-sized bamf, left standing there in the alley. Now Golden Gloves, he
looks like he's about to wet himself panicking, and he just runs off."
"You understand, of course, that where I come from this is certainly a fantastic tale."
"You want proof?" Gaspode demanded, "Angua made Ron wait outside, but *he's* got your
proof. After Golden Gloves runs off, *we* went in and grabbed the mouse and the cockroach."
Holmes turned to Angua. "Would you allow Gaspode to go retrieve those items? They would be
most benificial."
"Well, we kept the mouse, anyway," Gaspode scowled, "Ron gave the cockroach to Queen Molly
- he's still trying to get in the Beggar's Guild."
"Who is Queen Molly?"
"Duh - the Guildmistress of the Beggars."
"Very well - go and retrieve the mouse for me, and I may wish to speak with Ron as well."
"Got a head cold?" Gaspode asked brightly.
"Not that I am aware," Holmes replied.
"I suggest you develop one before you talk to Ron. He isn't called Foul for nothing."
As Gaspode waddled off, Holmes glanced up at Angua, then seemed to remember his manners
and got to his feet.
"So - what do you think, Mr. Holmes?" she asked him as he brushed the dust from his clothing.
"I think I'm still in London in the throes of a delirious ague, but that obviously has no bearing on
the case at hand."
"I've never seen anyone handle Gaspode like that - usually people just don't believe he can talk."
"This is a novelty for myself as well - seldom do I find a direct witness to an event I'm
investigating, never have I encountered a mystery of this calibre - and never before have I
interviewed a dog. I can only assume he makes a reliable witness."
"Well, nothing that you can bring before a court of law."
"I assumed not. It would be difficult to cross-examine him - ah, here he comes again."
Gaspode made his way down the stairs with his prize, padded up to Holmes [overgrown toenails
clicking on the stone floor], and sat down in front of him. Holmes crouched down and held his
hand out under Gaspode's mouth. Gaspode dropped the object in question.
Holmes held it up to the light. It was, indeed, a perfectly rendered golden mouse, from its
delicate gold-filament whiskers to its tiny claws, frozen in a startled pose with its back arched and
its head turned to one side and its whiskers flared out. Its eyes were little chips of amber.
"Remarkable... even the fur is still soft." Holmes patted Gaspode on the head. "Good boy,
Gaspode."
Gaspode grumbled at being patted on the head and called a Good Boy by any human, then got a
baffled look on his face and glared back at his traitorous tail, wagging furiously.
*****
End of Part 15.