Vimes turned. A man had pushed his way through the crowds.
On the whole, Colon reflected, it was just possible that the worst moment of his life hadn't happened yet. Vimes tended to react in a ballistic way to words like 'I say! You there!' when uttered in a certain kind of neighing voice.
The speaker had an aristocratic look about him, and the angry air of a man not accustomed to the rigours of life who has just found one happening to him.
Vimes saluted smartly. 'Yessir! I'm a watchman, sir!'
'Well, just you come along with me and arrest this thing. It's disturbing the workers.'
'What thing, sir?'
'A golem, man! Walked into the factory as bold as you like and started painting on the damn walls!'
'What factory, sir?'
'You come with me, my man. I happen to be a very good friend of your commander and I can't say I like your attitude.'
'Sorry about that, sir,' said Vimes, with a cheerfulness that Sergeant Colon had come to dread.
There was a nondescript factory on the other side of the street. The man strode in.
'Er ... he said golem , sir,' murmured Colon.
Vimes had known Fred Colon a long time. 'Yes, Fred, so it's vitally important for you to stay on guard out here,' he said.
The relief rose off Colon like steam. 'That's right, sir!' he said.
The factory was full of sewing-machines. People were sitting meekly in front of them. It was the sort of thing the guilds hated, but since the Guild of Seamstresses didn't take all that much interest in sewing there was no one to object. Endless belts led up from each machine to pulleys on a long spindle near the roof, which in turn were driven by ... Vimes's eyes followed it down the length of the workshop ... a treadmill, now stationary and somewhat broken. A couple of golems were standing forlornly alongside it, looking lost.
There was a hole in the wall quite close to it and, above it, someone had written in red paint:
WORKERS! NO MASTERS BUT YOURSELVES!
Vimes grinned.
'It smashed its way in, broke the treadmill, pulled my golems out, painted that stupid message on the wall and stamped out again!' said the man behind him.
'Hmm, yes, I see. A lot of people use oxen in their treadmills,' said Vimes mildly.
'What's that got to do with it? Anyway, cattle can't keep going twenty-four hours a day.'
Vimes's gaze worked its way along the rows of workers. Their faces had that worried, Cockbill Street look that you got when you were cursed with pride as well as poverty.
'No, indeed,' he said. 'Most of the clothing workshops are up at Nap Hill, but the wages are cheaper down here, aren't they?'
'People are jolly glad to get the work!'
'Yes,' said Vimes, looking at the faces again. 'Glad.' At the far end of the factory, he noted, the golems were trying to rebuild their treadmill.
'Now you listen to me, what I want you to do is - ' the factory-owner began.
Vimes's hand gripped his collar and dragged him forward until his face was a few inches from Vimes's own.
'No, you listen to me,' hissed Vimes. 'I mix with crooks and thieves and thugs all day and that doesn't worry me at all but after two minutes with you I need a bath. And if I find that damn golem I'll shake its damn hand, you hear me?'
To the surprise of that part of Vimes that wasn't raging, the man found enough courage to say 'How dare you! You're supposed to be the law!'
Vimes's furious finger almost went up the man's nose.