"Yes, Archchancellor?" said the Bursar, glumly.

The Archchancellor removed his hat.

"What about this, then?" he demanded.

"Um, um, um . . . what, Archchancellor?"

"This, man! This!"

Close to panic, the Bursar stared desperately at the top of Ridcully's head.

"The what? Oh. The bald spot?"

"I have not got a bald spot!"

"Um, then-"

"I mean it wasn't there yesterday!"

"Ah. Well. Um." At a certain point something always snapped inside the Bursar, and he couldn't stop himself. "Of course these things do happen and my grandfather always swore by a mixture of honey and horse manure, he rubbed it on every day-"

"I'm not going bald!"

A tic started to dance across the Bursar's face. The words started to come out by themselves, without the apparent intervention of his brain.

"-and then he got this device with a glass rod and, and, and you rubbed it with a silk cloth and-"

"I mean it's ridiculous! My family have never gone bald, except for one of my aunts!"

"-and, and, and then he'd collect morning dew and wash his head, and, and, and-"

Ridcully subsided. He was not an unkind man.

"What're you taking for it at the moment?" he murmured.

"Dried, dried, dried, dried," stuttered the Bursar.

"The old dried frog pills, right?"

"R-r-r-r."

"Left-hand pocket?"

"R-r-r-r."

"OK. . . right. . . swallow. . ."

They stared at one another for a moment.

The Bursar sagged.

"M-m-much better now, Archchancellor, thank you."

"Something's definitely happening. Bursar. I can feel it in my water."

"Anything you say, Archchancellor."

"Bursar?"

"Yes, Archchancellor?"

"You ain't a member of some secret society or somethin', are you?"

"Me? No, Archchancellor."

"Then it'd be a damn good idea to take your underpants off your head."