The Last Continent (Discworld 22)

'Absolutely, Mister Stibbons,' said Ridcully, from above. 'No offence meant, of course, but if the choice is a trip on the briny deep or staying on a small island with someone trying to create a more inflammable cow then you can call me Salty Sam.'

'Is this the poop deck?' said the Dean. 'I hope not,' said Ridcully briskly. 'You see, Stibbons—'

'Are you sure?' said the Dean. 'I'm sure, Dean. You see, Stibbons, when you've had a little more experience in these matters you'll learn that there's nothing more dangerous than a god with too much time on his hands—'

'Except an enraged mother bear,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'No, they're far more dangerous.'

'Not when they're really close.'

'If it was the poop deck, how would we know?' said the Dean. Ponder shook his head. There were times when the desire to climb the thaumaturgical ladder was seriously blunted, and one of them was when you saw what was on top. 'I . . . I just don't know what to say,' he said. 'I am frankly astonished.'

'Well done, lad. So run along and get some bananas, will you? Green ones will keep better. And don't look so upset. When it comes to gods, I have to say, you can give me one of the make-out-of-clay-and-smite-'em brigade any day of the week. That's the kind of god you can deal with.'

'The practically human sort,' said the Dean. 'Exactly.'

'Call me overly picky,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, 'but I'd prefer not to be around a god who might suddenly decide I'd run faster with three extra legs.'

'Exactly. Is there something wrong, Stibbons? Oh, he's gone. Oh well, no doubt he'll be back. And . . . Dean?'

'Yes, Archchancellor?'

'I can't help thinking you're working up to some sort of horrible joke about a poop deck. I'd prefer not, if it's all the same to you.'

'You all right, mate?' No one in the world had ever been so pleased to see Crocodile Crocodile before. Rincewind let himself be pulled upright. His hand, against all expectation, was not blue and three times its normal size. That bloody kangaroo . . .' he muttered, using the hand to wave away the eternal flies. 'What kangaroo waf that, mate?' said the crocodile, helping him back towards the pub. Rincewind looked around. There were just the normal components of the local scenery – dry- looking bushes, red dirt and a million circling flies. The one I was talking to just now.'

'I was juft fweeping up and I faw you dancing around yellin',' said Crocodile. 1 didn't fee no kangaroo.'

'It's probably a magic kangaroo,' said Rincewind wearily. 'Oh, right, a magic kangaroo,' said Crocodile. 'No worrieth. I think maybe I'd better make you up the cure for drinking too much beer, mate.'

'What's the cure?'

'More beer.'

'How much beer did I have last night, then?'

'Oh, about twenty pinth.'

'Don't be silly, no one can even hold that much beer!'

'Oh, you didn't hang on to much of it at all, mate. No worrieth. We like a man who can't hold hif beer.' In the fetid fleapit of Rincewind's brain the projectionist of memory put on reel two. Recollection began to flicker. He shuddered. 'Was I . . . singing a song?' he said. Too right. You kept pointing to the Roo Beer pofter and finging . . .' Crocodile's huge jaws moved as he tried to remember, ' “Tie my kangaroo up.” Bloody good fong.'

'And then I . . .?' Then you loft all your money playing Two Up with Daggy's shearing gang.'

'That's . . . I . . . there were these two coins, and the bloke'd toss them in the air, and you . . . had to bet on how they'd come down . . .'

'Right. And you kept bettin' they wouldn't come down at all. Paid it was bound to happen iooner or later. You got good odds, though.'

'I lost all the money Mad gave me?'

'Yep.'

'How was I paying for my beer, then?'

'Oh, the blokes were queueing up to buy it for you. They faid you were better than a day at the races.'

'And then I . . . there was something about sheep . . .' He looked horrified. 'Oh, no . . .'

'Oh, yeah. You faid, “Ftrain the fraying crones, a dollar a time for giving fheep a haircut? I could do a beaut foft job like that with my eyes fhut, too right no flaming worries by half bonza fhoot through ye gods this if good beer . . .” '