'Nitch?'
'One of the wizards told me about 'em,' said Dibbler. 'Everything's got a nitch. You know. Like: where they ought to be. What they was cut out for?'
William nodded. He was good with words. 'Niche?' he said.
'One of them things, yes.' Dibbler sighed. 'I missed out on the semaphore. Just didn't see it coming. Next thing you know, everyone's got a clacks company. Big money. Too rich for my blood. I could've done all right with the Fung Shooey, though. Sheer bloody bad luck there.'
'I've certainly felt better with my chair in a different position,' said William. That advice had cost him two dollars, along with an injunction to keep the lid down on the privy so that the Dragon of Unhappiness wouldn't fly up his bottom.
'You were my first customer and I thank you,' said Dibbler. 'I was all set up, I'd got the Dibbler wind-chimes and the Dibbler mirrors, it was gravy all the way - I mean, everything was positioned for maximum harmony, and then... smack. Bad karma plops on me once more.' ,
'It was a week before Mr Passmore was able to walk again, though,' said William. The case of Dibbler's second customer had been very useful for his news letter, which rather made up for the two dollars.
'I wasn't to know there really is a Dragon of Unhappiness,' said Dibbler.
'I don't think there was until you convinced him that one exists,' said William.
Dibbler brightened a little. 'Ah, well, say what you like, I've always been good at selling ideas. Can I convince you of the idea that a sausage in a bun is what you desire at this time?'
'Actually, I've really got to get this along to--' William began, and then said, 'Did you just hear someone shout?'
'I've got some cold pork pies, too, somewhere,' said Dibbler, ferreting in his tray. 'I can give you a convincingly bargain price on--'
'I'm sure I heard something,' said William.
Dibbler cocked an ear. 'Sort of like a rumbling?' he said.
'Yes.'
They stared into the slowly rolling clouds that filled Broad Way.
Which became, quite suddenly, a huge tarpaulin-covered cart, moving unstoppably and very fast...
And the last thing William remembered, before something flew out of the night and smacked him between the eyes, was someone shouting, 'Stop the press!'
The rumour, having been pinned to the page by William's pen like a butterfly to a cork, didn't come to the ears of some people, because they had other, darker things on their mind.
Their rowboat slid through the hissing waters of the river Ankh, which closed behind it slowly.
Two men were bent over the oars. The third sat in the pointy end. Occasionally he spoke.
He said things like 'My nose itches.'
'You'll just have to wait till we get there,' said one of the rowers.
'You could let me out again. It really itches.'
'We let you out when we stopped for supper.'
'It didn't itch then.'
The other rower said, 'Shall I hit him up alongside the --ing head with the --ing oar again, Mr Pin?'
'Good idea, Mr Tulip.'
There was a dull thump in the darkness.
'Ow.'