William turned over, woke up and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.
Two minutes later Mrs Arcanum came downstairs and into the kitchen armed with a lamp, a poker and most importantly with her hair in curlers. The combination would be a winner against all but the most iron-stomached intruder.
'Mr de Worde! What are you doing? It's midnight!'
William glanced up and then went back to opening cupboards. 'Sorry I knocked the saucepans over, Mrs Arcanum. I'll pay for any damage. Now, where are the scales?'
'Scales?'
'Scales! Kitchen scales! Where are they?'
'Mr de Worde, I--'
'Where are the damn scales, Mrs Arcanum?' said William desperately.
'Mr de Worde! For shame!'
The future of the city hangs in the balance, Mrs Arcanum!'
Perplexity slowly took the place of stern affront. 'What, in my scales?'
'Yes! Yes! It could very well be!'
'Well, er... they're in the pantry by the flour bag. The whole city, you say?'
'Quite possibly!' William felt his jacket sag as he forced the big brass weights into his pocket.
'Use the old potato sack, do,' said Mrs Arcanum, now quite flustered by events.
William grabbed the sack, rammed everything in and ran for the door.
'The University and the river and everything?' said the landlady nervously.
'Yes! Yes indeed!'
Mrs Arcanum set her jaw. 'You will wash it out thoroughly afterwards, won't you?' she said to his retreating back.
William's progress slowed towards the end of the road. Big iron kitchen scales and a full set of weights aren't carried lightly.
But that was the point, wasn't it? Weight! He ran and walked and dragged them through the freezing, foggy night until he reached Gleam Street.
The lights were still on in the Inquirer building. How late do you need to stay up when you can make up the news as you go along? thought William. But this is real. Heavy, even.
He hammered on the door of the Times shed until a dwarf opened up. The dwarf was amazed to see a frantic William de Worde rush past and drop the scales and weights on a desk.
'Please get Mr Goodmountain up. We've got to get out another edition! And can I have ten dollars, please?'
It took Goodmountain to sort things out when, night-shirted but still firmly helmeted, he clambered out of the cellar.
'No, ten dollars,' William was explaining to the bewildered dwarfs. 'Ten dollar coins. Not ten dollars' worth of money.'
'Why?'
'To see how much seventy thousand dollars weigh!'
'We haven't got seventy thousand dollars!'
'Look, even one dollar coin would do,' said William patiently. Ten dollars would just be more accurate, that's all. I can work it out from there.'