'I reckon we ought to take a look in that room,' said the ostler.

'Really? Well, I reckon what Mr Lipwig does to get out of breath in his own room is his own affair,' said the coachman, giving Moist a huge wink. 'An' I reckon ten dollars a man is running away from me 'cos of you being a tit. Sorry about this, sir,' he said to Lipwig, 'he's new and he ain't got no manners. We will now be leaving you, sir,' he added, touching where he thought his forelock was, 'with further apologies for any inconvenience which may have been caused. Now get cracking, you bastards!'

When they were out of sight Moist went back into his room and carefully bolted the door behind him.

Well, at least he had some skills. The slight hint that there was a woman in his room had definitely swung it. Anyway, he was the Postmaster General and he did have all the keys.

It was only an hour before dawn. He'd never get to sleep again. He might as well rise formally, and enhance a reputation for keenness.

They might have shot him right off the wall, he thought, as he sorted out a shirt. They could have left him to hang there and taken bets on how long it'd be before he lost his grip; that would be the Ankh-Morpork way. It was just his good luck that they'd decided to give him a righteous smack or two before posting him through the guild letter box. And luck came to those who left a space for it—

There was a heavy yet somehow still polite knock on the door.

Are You Decent, Mr Lipwig?' a voice boomed.

Regrettably yes, thought Moist, but said aloud: 'Come in, Gladys.'

The floorboards creaked and furniture rattled on the other side of the room as Gladys entered.

Gladys was a golem, a clay man (or, for the sake of not having an argument, a clay woman) who was nearly seven feet tall. She — well, with a name like Gladys 'it' was unthinkable and 'he' just didn't do the job — wore a very large blue dress.