'What's that, sergeant?'

Colon looked down at the very large, brown, upturned face, and smiled.

'Afternoon, All,' he said, climbing ponderously down the ladder. 'What you're looking at, Mister Jolson, is the modern Watch for the new millenienienum... num.'

' 's a bit big, Fred,' said All Jolson, looking at it critically. 'I've seen lots of smaller ones.'

'Watch as in City Watch, All.'

'Ah, right.'

'Anyone goes too fast around here and Lord Vetinari'll be looking at his picture next morning. The iconographs do not lie, All.'

'Right, Fred. 'cos they're too stupid.'

'His lordship's got fed up with carts speeding over the bridge, see, and asked us to do something about it. I'm Head of Traffic now, you know.'

'Is that good, Fred?'

'I should just think so!' said Sergeant Colon expansively. 'It's up to me to keep the, er, arteries of the city from clogging up, leadin' to a complete breakdown of commerce and ruination for us all. Most vital job there is, you could say.'

'And it's just you doing it, is it?'

'Well, mainly. Mainly. Corporal Nobbs and the other lads help, of course.'

All Jolson scratched his nose. 'It was on a similar subject that I wanted to talk to you, Fred,' he said.

'No problem, All.'

'Something very odd's turned up outside my restaurant, Fred.'

Sergeant Colon followed the huge man around the corner. Fred usually liked All's company because, next to All, he was very skinny indeed. All Jolson was a man who'd show up on an atlas and change the orbit of small planets. Paving stones cracked under his feet. He combined in one body—and there was plenty of room left over—Ankh-Morpork's best chef and its keenest eater, a circumstance made in mashed potato heaven. Sergeant Colon couldn't remember what the man's real first name had been; he'd picked up the nickname by general acclaim, since no one seeing him in the street for the first time could believe that it was all Jolson.