"Huh, not many dogs could track a werewolf, mister. They"re cunning."
"Go to the best, I always say," said Carrot.
"Finest nose known to man or beast," said Gaspode, wrinkling it. "Where"s she gone, then?"
"To Uberwald, I think."
Carrot moved fast. Gaspode"s flight was hindered by the hand gripping his tail.
"That"s hundreds of miles away! And dog miles is seven times longer! Not a chance!"
"Oh? All right, then. Silly of me to suggest it," said Carrot, letting go. "You"re right. It"s ridiculous."
Gaspode turned, suddenly full of suspicion. "No, I didn"t say it was ridiculous," he said. "I just said it was hundreds of miles away..."
"Yes, but you said you had no chance."
"No, I said that you had no chance of getting me to do it."
"Yes, but winter"s coming on and, as you say, a werewolf is very hard to track and on top of that Angua"s a copper. She"ll work out that I"d use you, so she"ll be covering her trail."
Gaspode whined. "Look, mister, respect is hard to earn in this dog"s town. If I"m not smelled around the lamp-posts for a couple of weeks my stock is definitely in the gutter, right?"
"Yes, yes, I understand. I"ll make some other arrangements. Nervous Nigel"s still around, isn"t he?"
"What? That spaniel? He couldn"t smell his own bottom if you put it in front of him!"
"They say he"s pretty good, nasally."
"And he widdles every time anyone looks at him!" snapped Gaspode.
"I heard he can smell a dead rat two miles away."
"Yeah? Well, I can smell what colour it is!"
Carrot sighed. "Well, I"ve got no choice, I"m afraid. You can"t do it, so I"ll - "
"I didn"t say - " Gaspode stopped, and then went on, "I"m going to do it, aren"t I? I"m bloody well going to do it. You"re going to trick me or blackmail me or whatever it takes, aren"t you...?"
"Yes. How do you manage to write, Gaspode?"
"I holds the chalk in me mouth. Easy."
"You"re a smart dog. I"ve always said so. The world"s only talking dog, too."
"Lower your voice, lower your voice!" said Gaspode, looking around. "Here, Uberwald"s wolf country, isn"t it?"
"Oh, yes."
"I could"ve bin a wolf, you know. With diff"rent parents, of course." Gaspode sniffed and looked furtively up and down the street again.
"Steak?"
"Every night."
"Right."
Sergeant Colon was a picture of misery drawn on a lumpy pavement in bad crayon on a wet day. He sat on a chair and occasionally glanced at the message that had just been delivered, as if hoping that the words would somehow fade away.