'What now?' said Mr Tulip.
'Time to think of a plan B,' said Pin.
'Why don't we just --ing hit people until someone tells us where the dog is?' said Mr Tulip.
'Tempting,' said Mr Pin. 'But we'll leave that for plan C--'
'Bugrit.'
They both turned.
'Bent treacle edges, I told 'em,' said Foul Ole Ron, lurching across the street, a wad of Timeses under one arm and the string of his nondescript mongrel in his other hand. He caught sight of the New Firm.
'Harglegarlyurp?' he said. 'LayamEnipl You gents want a paper?'
It seemed to Mr Pin that the last sentence, while in pretty much the same voice, had an intrusive, not-quite-right quality. Apart from anything else, it made sense.
'You got some change?' he said to Mr Tulip, patting his pockets.
'You're going to --ing buy one?' said his partner.
'There's a time and a place, Mr Tulip, a time and a place. Here you are, mister.'
'Millennium hand and shrimp, bugrit,' said Ron, adding, 'Much obliged, gents.'
Mr Pin opened the Times. 'This thing has got--' He stopped and looked closer.
' "Have You Seen This Dog?"' he said. 'Sheesh...' He stared at Ron.
'You sell lots of these things?' he said.
'Qeedle the slops, I told 'em. Yeah, hundreds.'
There it was again, the slight sensation of two voices.
'Hundreds,' said Mr Pin. He looked down at the paper seller's dog. It looked pretty much like the one in the paper, but all terriers looked alike. Anyway, this one was on a string. 'Hundreds,' he said again, and read the short article again.
He stared. 'I think we have a plan B,' he said.
At ground level the newspaper seller's dog watched them carefully as they walked away.
'That was too close for comfort,' it said, when they'd turned the corner.
Foul Ole Ron put down his papers in a puddle and pulled a cold sausage from the depths of his hulking coat.
He broke it into three equal pieces.
THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YE FRED • EXTRA!
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG?
$25 Reward for Information
William had dithered over that, but the Watch had supplied quite a good drawing and he felt right now that a little friendly gesture in that direction would be a good idea. If he found himself in deep trouble, head downwards, he'd need someone to pull him out.
He had re-written the Patrician story, too, adding as much as he was certain of, and there wasn't much of that. He was, frankly, stuck.
Sacharissa had penned a story about the opening of the Inquirer. William had hesitated about this, too. But it was news, after all. They couldn't just ignore it, and it filled some space.