Terry Pratchett - Jingo

“Excellent. Oh, just one other thing, Vimes. I do have the Assassins and the Thieves in agreement on this, but to cover all eventualities… I would consider it a favour if you could see to it that no one throws eggs or something at the Prince. That sort of thing always upsets people.”

The two sides watched each other carefully. They were old enemies. They had tested strengths many a time, had tasted defeat and victory, had contested turf. But this time it would go all the way.

Knuckles whitened. Boots scraped impatiently.

Captain Carrot bounced the ball once or twice.

“All right, lads, one more try, eh? And this time, no horseplay. William, what are you eating?”

The Artful Nudger {12} 12 A character in Dickens' Oliver Twist is called the Artful Dodger. scowled. No — one knew his name. Kids he'd grown up with didn't know his name. His mother, if he ever found out who she was, probably didn't know his name. But Carrot had found out somehow. If anyone else had called him “William” they'd be looking for their ear. In their mouth.

“Chewing gum, mister.”

“Have you brought enough for everybody?”

“No, mister.”

“Then put it away, there's a good chap. Now, let's— Gavin, what's that up your sleeve?”

The one known as Scumbag Gav didn't bother to argue.

“'s a knife, Mr Carrot.”

“And I bet you brought enough for everybody, eh?”

“'sright, mister.” Scumbag grinned. He was ten.

“Go on, put them on the heap with the others…”

Constable Shoe looked over the wall in horror. There were about fifty youths in the wide alleyway. Average age in years, about eleven. Average age in cynicism and malevolent evil: about 163. Although Ankh-Morpork football doesn't usually have goals in the normal sense, two had been nevertheless made at each end of the alley using the time-honoured method of piling up things to mark where the posts would be.

Two piles: one of knives, one of blunt instruments.

In the middle of the boys, who were wearing the colours of some of the nastier street gangs, Captain Carrot was bouncing an inflated pig's bladder.

Constable Shoe wondered if he ought to go and get help, but the man seemed quite as ease.

“Er, captain?” he ventured.

“Oh, hello, Reg. We were just having a friendly game of football. This is Constable Shoe, lads.”

Fifty pairs of eyes said: We'll remember your face, copper.

Reg edged around the wall and the eyes noted the arrow which had gone straight through his breastplate and protruded several inches from his back.

“There's been a bit of trouble, sir,” said Reg. “I thought I'd better fetch you. It's a hostage situation…”

“I'll come right away. OK, lads, sorry about this. Play amongst yourselves, will you? And I hope I'll see you all on Tuesday for the sing-song and sausage sizzle.”

“Yeah, mister,” said the Artful Nudger.

“And Corporal Angua will see if she can teach you the campfire howl.”

“Yeah, right,” said Scumbag.

“But what do we do before we part?” said Carrot expectantly.

The bloods of the Skats and the Mohocks looked bashfully at one another. Usually they were nervous of nothing, it being a banishment matter to show fear in any circumstances. But when they'd variously drawn up the clan rules, no one had ever thought there'd be someone like Carrot.

Glaring at one another with I'll-kill-you-if-you-ever-mention-this expressions, they all raised the index fingers of both hands to the level of their ears and chorused: “Wib wib wib.”

“Wob wob wob,” {13} 13 Carrot has formed Ankh-Morpork's first scout troop. This salute parodies the traditional (but now discontinued) Cub Scout exchange “Dyb dyb dyb.” “Dob dob dob.”. The ‘dyb’ in the challenge supposedly stands for “do your best”, the ‘dob’ in the scouts' response for “do our best”. Carrot replied heartily. “OK Reg, let's go.”

“How'd you do that, captain?” said Constable Shoe, as the watchmen hurried off.

“Oh, you just raise both fingers like this ,” said Carrot. “But I'd be obliged if you don't tell anyone, because it's meant to be a secret sig—”

“But they're thugs, captain! Young killers! Villains!”

“Oh, they're a bit cheeky, but nice enough boys underneath, when you take the time to understand—”

“I heard they never give anyone enough time to understand! Does Mr Vimes know you're doing this?”

“He sort of knows, yes. I said I'd like to start a club for the street kids and he said it was fine provided I took them camping on the edge of some really sheer cliff somewhere in a high wind. But he always says things like that. And I'm sure we wouldn't have him any other way. Now, where are these hostages?”

“It's at Vortin's again, captain. But it's… sort of worse than that…”

Behind them, the Skats and the Mohocks looked at one another warily. Then they picked up their weapons and edged away with care. It's not that we don't want to fight, their manner said. It's just that we've got better things to do right now, and so we're going to go away and find out what they are.

Unusually for the docks, there was not a great deal of shouting and general conversation. People were too busy thinking about money.

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs leaned against a stack of timber and watched a man very carefully painting the name Pride of Ankh-Morpork on the prow of a ship. At some point he'd realize that he'd left out the “e”, and they were idly looking forward to this modest entertainment.

“You ever been to sea, sarge?” said Nobby.

“Hah, not me!” said the sergeant. “Don't go flogging the oggin, lad.”

“I don't,” said Nobby. “I have never flogged any oggin. Never in my entire life have I flogged oggin.”

“Right.”

“I've always been very clean in that respect.”

“Except you don't know what flogging the oggin means, do you?”

“No, sarge.”

“It means going to sea. You can't bloody trust the sea. When I was a little lad I had this book about this little kid, he turned into a mermaid, {14} 14 This sounds very much like the story of young Tom the chimney sweep's transformation, told in moralistic Victorian children's tale The Water Babies , written in 1863 by Charles Kingsley. sort of thing, and he lived down the bottom of the sea—”

“—the oggin—”

“Right, and it was all nice talking fishes and pink seashells and stuff, and then I went on my holidays to Quirm and I saw the sea, and I thought: here goes, and if our ma hadn't been quick on her feet I don't know what would have happened. I mean, the kid in the book could breathe under the sea, so how was I to know? It's all bloody lies about the sea. It's just all yuk with lobsters in it.”

“My mum's uncle was a sailor” said Nobby. “But after the big plague he got press-ganged. {15} 15 Press-ganging was the 18th-century equivalent of conscription. A ship's captain, finding himself short-handed while in a home port, would send a gang of his men round the port, enlisting anyone they could find who looked like a sailor. Often this involved simply picking up drunks, but it was not unheard-of for men to be taken by force. Bunch of farmers got him drunk, he woke up next morning tied to a plough.”

They lounged some more.

“Looks like we're going to be in a fight, sarge,” said Nobby, as the painter very carefully started on the final “k”.

“Won't last long. Lots of cowards, the Klatchians,” said Colon. “The moment they taste a bit of cold steel they're legging it away over the sand.”