'Look, all I did was steal a sheep! And I didn't even do that! What's everyone so excited about?' said Rincewind desperately. 'Oh, very notorious crime, sheep-stealing,' said the warder cheerfully. 'Strikes a chord. Little man battlin' against the forces of brutal authority. People like that. You'll be remembered in song 'n' story, 'specially if yew come up with some good Last Words, like I said.' The warder hitched up his belt. 'To tell you the truth, a lot of people these days haven't even seen a bloody sheep, but hearing that someone's stolen one makes 'em feel proper Ecksians. It even does me good to have a proper criminal in the cells for once, instead of all these bloody politicians.' Rincewind sat down on the bunk again, with his head in his hands. 'O' course, a famous escape is nearly as good as gettin' hanged,' said the warder, in the manner of someone trying to keep up someone else's spirits. 'Really,' said Rincewind. 'Yew ain't asked if the little grille in the floor there leads into the sewers,' the warder prompted.
Rincewind peered between his fingers. 'Does it?'
'We ain't got any sewers.'
'Thank you. You've been very helpful.' The warden strolled off again, whistling. Rincewind lay back on the bunk and closed his eyes again. 'Baah!'
'Shut up.'
' 'scuse me, mister . . .' Rincewind groaned and sat up again. This time the voice was coming from the high, small, barred window. 'Yes, what is it?'
'Yew know when you was caught?'
'Well? What about it?'
'Er . . . what kind of a tree were you under?' Rincewind looked up at the narrow square of blue the prisoner calls the sky. 'What kind of question is that to ask me?'
'It's for the ballad, see? Only it'd help if it was a name with three syllables . . .'
'How do I know? I didn't stop for a bit of botany!'
'All right, all right, fair enough,' said the hidden speaker. 'But would you mind telling me what you was doing just before you stole the sheep?'
'I didn't steal the sheep!'
'Right, right, okay . . . What was you doing just before you didn't steal the sheep . . .?'
'I don't know, I can't remember!'
'Were you boiling your billy, by any chance?'
'I'm not admitting to that! The way you people talk, that could mean anything!'
'Means cookin' something up in a tin.'
'Oh. Well, yes, I had been doing that, as it happens.'
'Good on yer!' Rincewind thought he heard the sound of scribbling. 'Shame you didn't die at the end, but you're gonna get hung so that's all right. Got a beaut tune for this one, you just can't stop whistling it . . . Well, of course you will, no worries.'
'Thank you for that.'
'Reckon you might be as famous as Tinhead Ned, mate.'
'Really.' Rincewind went and lay down on his bunk again. 'Yeah. They used to lock him up in that very cell you're in now, in fact. And he always escaped. No one knows how, 'cos that's a bloody good lock and he didn't bend any bars. He said they'd never build a jail that could hold him.'
'Thin fellow, was he?'
'Nope.'
'So he had a key or something.'
'Nope. Got to go now, mate. Oh, yeah, I remember. Er, do you think your ghost will be heard if people pass by the billybong, or not?'
'What?'
'It'd be helpful if it did. Makes a good last verse. Top stuff.'
'I don't know!'