Men at Arms by Terry Pratchett Page A

eat with hit, you will sleep with hit, you—”
    “’Scuse me.”
    “Who said that?”
    “Down here. It’s me, Lance-Constable Cuddy.”
    “Yes, pilgrim?”
    “How do we eat with it, sergeant?”
    Sergeant Colon’s wound-up machismo wound down. He was suspicious of Lance-Constable Cuddy. He strongly suspected Lance-Constable Cuddy was a trouble-maker.
    “What?”
    “Well, do we use it as a knife or a fork or cut in half for chopsticks or what?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Excuse me, sergeant?”
    “What is it, Lance-Constable Angua?”
    “How exactly do we sleep with it, sir?”
    “Well, I…I meant… Corporal Nobbs, stop that sniggering right now! ” Colon adjusted his breastplate and decided to strike out in a new direction.
    “Now, hwat we have ’ere is a puppet, mommet or heffigy”—indicating a vaguely humanoid shape made of leather and stuffed with straw, mounted on a stake—“called by the hnickname of Harthur, weaponstraining, for the use hof. Forward, Lance-Constable Angua. Tell me, Lance-Constable, do you think you could kill a man?”
    “How long will I have?”
    There was a pause while they picked up Corporal Nobbs and patted him on the back until he settled down.
    “Very well,” said Sergeant Colon, “what you must do now is take your truncheon like so , and on the command one, proceed smartly to Harthur and on the command two, tap him smartly upon the bonce. Hwun…two…”
    The truncheon bounced off Arthur’s helmet.
    “Very good, only one thing wrong. Anyone tell me what it was?”
    They shook their heads.
    “From behind ,” said Sergeant Colon. “You hit ’em from behind . No sense in risking trouble, is there? Now you have a go, Lance-Constable Cuddy.”
    “But sarge—”
    “Do it.”
    They watched.
    “Perhaps we could fetch him a chair?” said Angua, after an embarrassing fifteen seconds.
    Detritus sniggered.
    “Him too little to be a guard,” he said.
    Lance-Constable Cuddy stopped jumping up and down.
    “Sorry, sergeant,” he said, “this isn’t how dwarfs do it, see?”
    “It’s how guards do it,” said Sergeant Colon. “All right, Lance-Constable Detritus— don’t salute —you give it a try.”
    Detritus held the truncheon between what must technically be called thumb and forefinger, and smashedit over Arthur’s helmet. He stared reflectively at the truncheon’s stump. Then he bunched up his, for want of a better word, fist, and hammered Arthur over what was briefly its head until the stake was driven three feet into the ground.
    “Now the dwarf, he can have a go,” he said.
    There was another embarrassed five seconds. Sergeant Colon cleared his throat.
    “Well, yes, I think we can consider him thoroughly apprehended,” he said. “Make a note, Corporal Nobbs. Lance-Constable Detritus— don’t salute! —deducted one dollar for loss of truncheon. And you’re supposed to be able to ask ’em questions afterwards.”
    He looked at the remains of Arthur.
    “I think around about now is a good time to demonstrate the fine points of harchery,” he said.
     
    Lady Sybil Ramkin looked at the sad strip of leather that was all that remained of the late Chubby.
    “Who’d do something like this to a poor little dragon?” she said.
    “We’re trying to find out,” said Vimes. “We…we think maybe he was tied up next to a wall and exploded.”
    Carrot leaned over the wall of a pen.
    “Coochee-coochee-coo?” he said. A friendly flame took his eyebrows off.
    “I mean, he was as tame as anything,” said Lady Ramkin. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly, poor little thing.”
    “How could someone make a dragon blow up?” said Vimes. “Could you do it by giving it a kick?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sybil. “You’d lose your leg, mind you.”
    “Then it wasn’t that. Any other way? So you wouldn’t get hurt?”

    “Not really. It’d be easier to make it blow itself up. Really, Sam, I don’t like talking about—”
    “I have to