Broadman was browbeating the small troll who swept the bar when the trio walked past him. “What in hell’s that?” he said.

“Just don’t talk about it,” hissed Hugh. Twoflower was already thumbing through his book.

“What’s he doing?” said Broadman, arms akimbo.

“It tells him what to say. I know it sounds ridiculous,” muttered Hugh.

“How can a book tell a man what to say?”

“I wish for an accommodation, a room, lodgings, the lodging house, full board, are your rooms clean, a room with a view, what is your rate for one night?” said Twoflower in one breath.

Broadman looked at Hugh. The beggar shrugged.

“He’s got plenty money,” he said.

“Tell him it’s three copper pieces, then. And that thing will have to go in the stable.”

“?” said the stranger. Broadman held up three thick red fingers and the man’s face was suddenly a sunny display of comprehension. He reached into his pouch and laid three large gold pieces on Broadman’s palm. Broadman stared at them. They represented about four times the worth of the Broken Drum, Staff included. He looked at Hugh. There was no help there. He looked at the stranger. He swallowed.

“Yes,” he said, in an unnaturally high voice. “And then there’s meals, o’course. Uh. You understand, yes? Food. You eat. No?” He made the appropriate motions.

“Fut?” said the little man.

“Yes,” said Broadman, beginning to sweat. “Have a look in your little book, I should.”

The man opened the book and ran a finger down one page. Broadman, who could read after a fashion, peered over the top of the volume. What he saw made no sense.

“Fooood,” said the stranger. “Yes. Cutlet, hash chop, stew, ragout, fricassee, mince, collops, souffle, dumpling, blancmange, sorbet, gruel, sausage, not to have a sausage, beans, without a hear, kickshaws, jelly, jam. Giblets.” He beamed at Broadman.