'No, thank you.'
'Souvenir piece of the rope they're gonna hang him with? Authentic!' Rincewind looked at the short length of thick string being dangled hopefully in front of him. 'Some people might say that had a hint of clothesline about it,' he said. Dibbler gave the string a look of extreme interest. 'Obviously we had to unravel it a bit, mate,' he said. 'And some people might pick holes in the suggestion that you could, philosophically speaking, sell lengths of the rope before the hanging?' Dibbler paused, his smile not moving. Then he said, 'It's the rope, right? Three-quarter-inch hemp, the usual stuff. Authentic. Probably even from the same ropemaker. Come on, all I'm looking for here is a fair go. Probably it's a pure fluke this ain't the actual bit that's gonna go round his neck—'
'That's only half an inch thick. Look, I can see the label, it says “Hill's Clothesline Co”.'
'Does it?' Once again Dibbler appeared to be looking at his product for the first time. But the traditions of the Dibbler clan would never let a mere disastrous fact get in the way of a spiel. 'It's still rope,' he averred. 'Authentic rope. No? No worries. How about some authentic native art?' He rummaged in his crowded tray and held up a square of cardboard. Rincewind gave it an appraising look. He'd seen something like this out in the red country, although he'd not been certain that it was art in the way Ankh-Morpork understood it. It was more like a map, a history book and a menu all rolled together. Back home, people tied a knot in their handkerchief to remind them
of things. Out in the hot country there weren't any handkerchiefs, so people tied a knot in their thoughts. They didn't paint very many pictures of a string of sausages. '
's called Sausage and Chips Dreaming,' said Dibbler. 'I don't think I've seen one like that,' said Rincewind. 'Not with the sauce bottle in it as well.'
'So what?' said Dibbler. 'Still native. Genuine picture of traditional city tucker, done by a native. A fair go, that's all I ask.'
'Ah, suddenly I think I understand. The native in this case, perhaps, being you?' said Rincewind. 'Yep. Authentic. You arguing?'
'Oh, come on.'
'What? I was born over there in Treacle Street, Bludgeree, and so was my dad. And my granddad. And his dad. I didn't just step off the driftwood like some people I might mention.' His ratty little face darkened. 'Coming over here, taking our jobs . . . What about the little man, eh? All I'm askin' for is a fair go.' For a moment Rincewind contemplated handing himself over to the Watch. 'Nice to hear someone siding with the rights of the indigenous population,' he muttered, checking the street again. 'Indigenous? What do they know about a day's work? Nah, they can go back where they came from too,' said Dibbler. 'They don't want to work.'
'Good thing for you, though, I can see that,' said Rincewind. 'Otherwise they'd be taking your job, right?' The way I see it, I'm more indigenous than them,' said Fair Go, pointing an indignant thumb at himself. 'I earned my indigenuity, I did.' Rincewind sighed. Logic could take you only so far. then you had to get out and hop. 'A fair go, that's what you want,' he said. 'Am I right?'
'Yep!'
'So . . . is there anyone who you don't want to go back where they came from?' Fair Go Dibbler gave this some deep consideration. 'Well, me, obviously,' he said. 'And my mate Duncan, 'cos Duncan's me mate. And Mrs Dibbler, of course. And some of the blokes down at the fish and chip shop. Lots of people, really.'
'Well, I'll tell you what,' said Rincewind. 'I definitely want to go back where I came from.'
'Good on yer!'
'Your socio-political analysis is certainly work-ing on me.'
'Beaut!'
'And maybe you can show me how? Like, where the docks are?'
'Well, I would,' said Dibbler, obviously torn. 'Only there's going to be this hanging in a few hours and I want to get the meat pies warmed up.' As a matter of fact, I heard the hanging had been cancelled,' said Rincewind, conspiratorially. 'The bloke escaped.'
'Never!'
'He certainly did!' said Rincewind. Tm not pulling your raw prawn.'
'Did he have any last words?'
' “Goodbye,” I think.'
'You mean he wasn't in a famous last-stand shoot-out with the Watch?'
'Apparently not.'
'What kind of escape is that?' said Fair Go. 'That's no way to behave. I didn't have to come up here, I gave up a good spot at the Galah for this, 's not a good hanging without a meat pie.' He leaned closer and gave a furtive look both ways before continuing: 'Say what you like, the Galah's good for business. Their money's the same as anyone else's, that's what I say.'
'Well . . . yes. Obviously. Otherwise it'd be . . . different money,' said Rincewind. 'So, since your night's ruined, why not just show me where the docks are?' There was still some uncertainty in Dibbler's stance. Rincewind swallowed. He'd faced spiders, angry men with spears and bears that dropped on you out of trees, but now the continent was presenting him with its most dangerous challenge. Tell you what,' he said, 'I'll . . . I'll even . . . buy . . . something off you?' The rope?'
'Not the rope. Not the rope. Um . . . I know this may seem a somewhat esoteric question, but what's in the meat pies?'
'Meat.'
'And what kind of meat?'