‘Look, you must excuse me, lad, I need to pay a visit.’ Carefully lighting his pipe and picking up an old copy of the Almanak, Plain Old Humphrey made his way to his small personal privy between the compost heaps and the hedge. ‘Why don’t you take that puppy of yours for a walk in the park?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Please may I wait until you come out?’ asked Geoffrey, holding up his bucket.
‘No, you may not,’ replied Plain Old Humphrey firmly. ‘There are some things a chap needs to do without being under observation, especially by a small boy holding a bucket. Even if you can’t see him it tends to put you off your stride, so off you go.’
Geoffrey stood on a pile of old seed boxes and, holding Widdler in his arms, looked over the hedge and into the park. ‘Shall we go and explore, Widdler?’ he said. Widdler wagged his tail so hard with excitement that his whole body shook.
They crawled through a hole in the hedge together, ran across the grass and chased each other round and round in circles until Geoffrey fell over. Out of the corner of his eye and not far away he saw another dog stop, squat down and produce a small pile of poo before scuttling off. Geoffrey wished he’d brought his bucket, and was standing looking at the small brown heap, wondering how to get it home, when a voice asked: ‘Is that yours?’
‘No, I went before I came out,’ Geoffrey replied to the owner of the voice, a shabbily dressed urchin with a bucket in his hand.
The boy looked satisfied. ‘Well, it’s mine then.’
‘What? Are you a poo collector, too?’ asked Geoffrey excitedly.
‘I most certainly am! My name is Louis and I collect dog poo for Sir Harry King. He’ll pay me a penny a bucketful if it’s well stamped down. Extra too if it’s white dog poo – that’s the very best. We in the business call it
the “pure”.’
‘Is Sir Harry a collector?’ enquired Geoffrey with some interest.
‘No, he sells it to the tanning yards.’
‘Does he buy mouse poo?’ Geoffrey went on, fingering the matchbox in his pocket.
‘Don’t know,’ said Louis with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘but if there’s money in it Sir Harry King will collect it, trust me. He’s got a grand house down at the corner of Dimwell and Grunefair, but he doesn’t keep the poo there because Lady King won’t let him bring his work home. He collects all the poo in Ankh-Morpork and deposits it in big yards outside the City Gates.’
I’d very much like to meet Sir Harry, thought Geoffrey. He sounds like a very sensible person.
‘Right, I’m off to deliver this to Sir Harry’s yard now,’ Louis declared when the bucket was full and well stamped down.
‘Can I help you again tomorrow?’ asked Geoffrey.
Louis looked at him sideways. ‘Can’t afford to pay you,’ he said quickly, ‘but if you like I’m mostly here in the early mornings when people walk their dogs.
‘This is my patch!’ he added with pride. ‘I fought hard for this. You just ask the Mitchell brothers: they won’t try to take it over again, oh no, indeed. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, my friend, is the world of the pure, and even if I say it myself, I’m one of the best. Sometimes I’m there with my trowel before little Fido even knows he’s going to go.’ And with that, spotting a small straining figure across the park, the lad was away as if he had wings on his heels – although what was really on his heels was probably not wings …
Geoffrey and Widdler crawled back under the hedge into Grand-mama’s garden. Plain Old Humphrey didn’t seem to be around so they climbed the stairs to the top of the house with a short diversion on the first-floor landing where Geoffrey tried to look round the back of the suit of armour. When he got to the nursery he saw with dismay that his lucky poo was not on the windowsill where he’d left it, and neither were the scissors.
‘Oh no! I’ve been tidied,’ he cried. ‘Being tidied’ was something that occasionally happened at home, but since the time his most precious stick had been tidied away (leading to long and recriminatory searches in the rubbish bins), he was usually given a bit of warning.
He dashed down to the kitchen again, where Lily the maid was mopping the floor. ‘Have you seen my lucky poo?’ he asked frantically. ‘I left it on my windowsill with some scissors.’
‘Is that what it was?’ shrieked Lily. ‘That’s disgustin’, that is. I threw it out the window and thems was my best scissors, too. Don’t you go bringing any more dirt up into your bedroom, young man, or I’ll tell your granny. And what’s that on your shoe?’
Geoffrey went back outside hurriedly to find Plain Old Humphrey, who was wandering down the path with the look of a man whose world was now a more comfortable place. ‘Lily tidied out my lucky poo,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever be lucky enough to be chosen by a bird again.’
‘Never mind, my lad. Just you wander across the park to the pigeon loft in Dimwell Street, and stand around there for a minute or two. But here’s a tip: put a bit of cardboard on your head first, then you can bring it back nice and easy. And I’ve got an old shed I’m not using where you can keep it safe.’
‘Can I keep my mouse poo there as well? Could I make a poo museum? I think poo is very interesting and it is not nasty,’ he said, his face going red. ‘After all, without poo everybody would explode.’
‘Of course,’ said Plain Old Humphrey. ‘I shall ask Hartley if she’s got any more spare jam jars. I think they could be quite useful.’
At that point Geoffrey heard his Grand-mama calling from the house.
‘I think it’s time for your tea,’ said Plain Old Humphrey. ‘Better run along if I was you.’
Grand-mama met Geoffrey at the back door. ‘If you’d like to wipe your feet and wash your hands really well, Geoffrey, I think there might be cake for tea. But first tell me, what have you been doing today?’