“If you need any help with the difficult letters, let me know,” he said helpfully.

Growling, the guard scrawled something on the paper and thrust it back.

“Now open up, p-lease,” he said.

“Certainly,” said Vimes, glancing at the paper. “But now I'd like to see some form of ID, thank you.”

“What?”

“It's not me, you understand,” said Vimes, “but if I went back and showed my captain this piece of paper and he said to me, Vi—Keel, how d'you know he's Henry the Hamster, well, I'd be a bit…flummoxed. Maybe even perplexed.”

“Listen, we don't sign for prisoners!”

“We do, Henry,” said Vimes. “No signature, no prisoners.”

“And you'll stop us taking 'em, will you?” said Henry the Hamster, taking a few steps forward.

“You lay a hand on that door,” said Vimes, “and I'll—”

“Chop it off, will you?”

“—I'll arrest you,” said Vimes. “Obstruction would be a good start, but we can probably think of some more charges back at the station.”

“Arrest me? But I'm a copper, same as you!”

“Wrong again,” said Vimes.

“What is thetrouble…here?” said a voice.

A small, thin figure appeared in the torchlight. Henry the Hamster took a step back, and adopted a certain deferential pose.

“Officer won't hand over the curfew breakers, sir,” he said.

“And this is the officer?” said the figure, lurching towards Vimes with a curiously erratic gait.

“Yessir.”

Vimes found himself under cool and not openly hostile inspection from a pale man with the screwed-up eyes of a pet rat.

“Ah,” said the man, opening a little tin and taking out a green throat pastille. “Would you be Keel, by anychance? I have been…hearing about you.” The man's voice was as uncertain as his walk. Pauses turned up in the wrong places.

“You hear about things quickly, sir.”

“A salute is generally in order, sergeant.”

“I don't see anything to salute, sir,” said Vimes.

“Goodpoint. Goodpoint. You are new, of course. But, you see, we in theParticulars…often find it necessary to wearplain…clothes.”

Like rubber aprons, if I recall correctly, thought Vimes. Aloud, he said: “Yes, sir.” It was a good phrase. It could mean any of a dozen things, or nothing at all. It was just punctuation until the man said something else.

“I'm Captain Swing,” said the man. “Findthee Swing. If you think the name is amusing, pleasesmirk…and get it over with. You may now salute.”

Vimes saluted. Swing's mouth turned up at the corners very briefly.

“Good. Your first night on our hurry-up wagon, sergeant?”

“Sir.”

“And you're here so early. With a full load, too. Shall we take alook…at your passengers?” He glanced in between the ironwork. “Ah. Yes. Good evening, Miss Palm. And an associate, I see—”

“I do crochet!”

“—and what appear to be some party-goers. Well, well.” Swing stood back. “What little scamps your street officers are, to be sure. They really have scoured the streets. How they love their…littlejokes, sergeant.” Swing put his hand on the wagon door's handle and there was a little noise which was nevertheless a thunderclap in the silence, and it was the sound of a sword moving very slightly in its scabbard.

Swing stood stock still for a moment and then delicately popped the pastille into his mouth. “Aha. I think that perhaps this little catch can be…thrownback, don't you, sergeant? We don't want to make a mockery of…thelaw. Take them away, take them away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But just onemoment, please, sergeant. Indulge me…just a little hobby of mine

“Sir?”

Swing had reached into a pocket of his over-long coat and pulled out a very large pair of steel calipers. Vimes flinched as they were opened up to measure the width of his head, the width of his nose and the length of his eyebrows. Then a metal ruler was pressed against one ear.

While doing this, Swing was mumbling under his breath. Then he closed the calipers with a snap, and slipped them back.

“I must congratulateyou, sergeant,” he said, “in overcoming your considerable natural disadvantages. Do you know you have the eye of a mass murderer? I am neverwrong…in these matters.”

“Nosir. Didn't know that, sir. Will try to keep it closed, sir,” said Vimes. Swing didn't crack a smile.

“However, I'm sure that when you have settled in you and Corporal, aha, Hamster here will get along like a…houseonfire.”

“A house on fire. Yes, sir.”

“Don'tlet…me detain you, Sergeant Keel.”

Vimes saluted. Swing nodded, turned in one movement, as though he was on a swivel, and strode back into the Watch House. Or jerked, Vimes considered. The man moved in the same way he talked, in a curious mixture of speeds. It was as if he was powered by springs; when he moved a hand, the first few inches of movement were a blur, and then it gently coasted until it was brought into conjunction with whatever was the intended target. Sentences came out in spurts and pauses. There was no rhythm to the man.

Vimes ignored the fuming corporal and climbed back on to the wagon. “Turn us round, lance-constable,” he said. “G'night, Henry.”

Sam waited until the wheels were rumbling over the cobbles before he turned, wide-eyed, to Vimes.

“You were going to draw on him, weren't you?” he said. “You were, sarge, weren't you?”

“You just keep your eyes on the road, lance-constable.”

“But that was Captain Swing, that was! And when you told that man to prove he was Henry the Hamster, I thought I'd widd—choke! You knew they weren't going to sign, right, sarge? 'cos if there's a bit of paper saying they've got someone, then if anyone wants to find out—”

“Just drive, lance-constable.” But the boy was right. For some reason, the Unmentionables both loved and feared paperwork. They certainly generated a lot of it. They wrote everything down. They didn't like appearing on other people's paperwork, though. That worried them.

“I can't believe we got away with it, sarge!”

We probably haven't, Vimes thought. But Swing has enough to worry him at the moment. He doesn't care very much about a big stupid sergeant.

He turned and banged on the ironwork.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, ladies and gentlemen, but it appears the Unmentionables are not doing business tonight. Looks like we'll have to do the interrogation ourselves. We're not very experienced at this, so I hope we don't get it wrong. Now, listen carefully. Are any of you serious conspirators bent on the overthrow of the government?”

There was a stunned silence from within the wagon.

“Come on, come on,” said Vimes. “I haven't got all night. Does anyone want to overthrow Lord Winder by force?”

“Well…no?” said the voice of Miss Palm.

“Or by crochet?”

“I heard that!” said another female voice sharply.

“No one? Shame,” said Vimes. “Well, that's good enough for me. Lance-constable, is it good enough for you?”

“Er, yes, sarge.”

“In that case we'll drop you all off on our way home, and my charming assistant Lance-Constable Vimes will take, oh, half a dollar off each of you for travelling expenses for which you will get a receipt. Thank you for travelling with us, and we hope you will consider the hurry-up wagon in all your future curfew-breaking arrangements.”

Vimes could hear shocked whispering behind him. This was not how things were supposed to go these days.

“Sarge,” said Lance-Constable Vimes.

“Yep?”

“Have you really got the eye of a mass murderer?”

“In the pocket of my other suit, yes.”

“Hah.” Sam was quiet for a while, and when he spoke again he seemed to have something new on his mind.

“Er, sarge?”

“Yes, lad?”

“What's a tuppenny upright, sarge?”

“It's a kind of jam doughnut, lad. Did your mum ever make 'em?”

“Yes, sarge. Sarge?”