Moist looked up into the man's eyes.

'We shall need a lot more than that,' growled Bent, from somewhere above Moist.

Harry King didn't bother to look up. He said: 'I only talks to the organ grinder.'

'Mr Bent, could you step outside for a few minutes,' said Moist brightly, 'and perhaps Mr King's… associates will do the same?'

Harry King nodded almost imperceptibly.

'Mr Lipwig, I really—'

'Please, Mr Bent.'

The chief cashier snorted, but followed the thugs out of the office. The young man with the briefcase made as if to leave, but Harry waved him back into his seat.

'You want to watch that Bent,' he said. 'There's something funny about him.'

'Odd, maybe, but he wouldn't like to be called funny,' said Moist. 'So why does Harry King need money, Mr King? Everyone knows you're rich. Has the bottom dropped out of the dog-muck business? Or vice versa?'

'I'm cons-sol-id-ating,' said King. 'This Undertaking business… there's going to be a few opportunities for a man in the right place. There's land to buy, palms to grease… you know how it is. But them other banks, they won't lend to King of the Golden River, for all it's my lads what keeps their cesspits fragrant as a violet. Them stuck-up ponces'd be up to their ankles in their own piss if it weren't for me, but they holds their noses when I walks by, oh yeah.' He stopped, as if a thought had occurred, and went on: 'Well, most people do, o'course, it's not like a man can take a bath every five bloody minutes, but that bunch of bankers still gives me the cold shoulder even when the wife has scrubbed me raw. How dare they! I'm a better risk than most of their smarmy customers, you can bet on that. I employs a thousand people in this city, mister, one way or another. That's a thousand families lookin' to me for their dinner. I might be about muck, but I don't muck about.'

He's not a crook, Moist reminded himself. He pulled himself out of the gutter and beat his way to the top in a world where a length of lead pipe was the standard negotiating tool. That world wouldn't trust paper. In that world, reputation was all.

'A hundred thousand is a lot of money,' he said aloud.

'You'll give it to me, though,' said King, grinning. 'I knows you will, 'cos you're a chancer, same as me. I can smell it on you. I smell a lad who's done a thing or two in his time, eh?'

'We all have to eat, Mr King.'

' 'course we do. 'course we do. An' now we can sit back like a coupla judges an' be pillows of the community, eh? So we'll shake hands on it like the gentlemen we ain't. This here,' he went on, laying a huge hand on the shoulder of the young man, 'is Wallace, my clerk what does the sums for me. He's new, on account of the last one I had I caught fiddlin' me. That was a laugh, as you can imagine!' Wallace didn't smile.

'I probably can,' said Moist. Harry King guarded his various premises with creatures that could only be called dogs because wolves aren't that insane. And they were kept hungry. There were rumours, and Harry King was probably happy about that. It paid to advertise. You didn't double-cross Harry King. But it worked both ways.

'Wallace can talk numbers with your monkey,' said Harry, standing up. 'You'll want to squeeze me, right enough. Business is business, and don't I know it. What do you say?'

'Well, I'd say we have an agreement, Mr King,' Moist said. Then he spat on his hand and held it out.

It was worth it to see the look on the man's face.

'I didn't know bankers did that,' said Harry.

'They don't often shake hands with Harry King, then,' said Moist. That was probably overdoing it, but King winked, spat on his own hand, and grasped Moist's. Moist had been prepared, but even so the man's grip ground his finger bones together.

'You're more full of bullshit than a frightened herd on fresh pasture, Mr Lipwig.'

'Thank you, sir. I take that as a compliment.'

'And just to keep your monkey happy, I'll deposit the deeds of the paper mill, the big yard and a few other properties,' said Harry. 'Give 'em to the man, Wallace.'

'You should have said that in the first place, Mr King,' said Moist, as some impressive scrolls were handed over.

'Yeah, but I didn't. Wanted to make sure of you. When can I have my money?'

'Soon. When I've printed it.'

Harry King wrinkled his nose. 'Oh, yeah, the paper stuff. Me, I like money that clinks, but Wallace here says paper's the coming thing.' He winked. 'And it's not like I can complain, since ol' Spools buys his paper off'f me these days. Can't turn me nose up at me own manufacture now, can I? Good day to you, sir!'

Mr Bent strode back into the office twenty minutes later, his face like a tax demand, to find Moist vaguely staring at a sheet of paper on the worn green leather desk.

'Sir, I must protest—'

'Did you nail him down to a good rate?' said Moist.

'I pride myself that I did, but the way you—'

'We will do well out of Harry King, Mr Bent, and he will do well out of us.'

'But you're turning my bank into some sort of—'

'Not counting friend Harry, we took in more than four thousand dollars today. Most of them were from what you'd call poor people, but there's far more of them than rich people. We can set that money to work. And we won't lend to scoundrels this time, don't you worry about that. I'm a scoundrel, and I can spot them a mile off. Please pass on our compliments to the counter staff. And now, Mr Bent, Mr Fusspot and I are going to see a man about making money.'

Teemer & Spools had gone up in the world because of the big stamp contract. They'd always done the best printing work in any case, but now they had the men and muscle to bid for all the big contracts. And you could trust them. Moist always felt rather guilty when he went into the place; Teemer & Spools seemed to represent everything that he only pretended to be.

There were plenty of lights on when he went in. And Mr Spools was in his office, writing in a ledger. He looked up and when he saw Moist smiled the smile you save for your very best customer.

'Mr Lipwig! What can I do for you? Do take a seat! We don't see so much of you these days!'

Moist sat and chatted, because Mr Spools liked to chat.

Things were difficult. Things are always difficult. There were a lot more presses around these days. T&S were staying ahead of the game by staying on top of it. Regrettably, said Mr Spools, with a straight face, their 'friendly' rivals, the wizards at Unseen University Press, had come a cropper with their talking books—

'Talking books? That sounds a good idea,' said Moist.

'Quite possibly,' said Spools with a sniff. 'But these weren't meant to, and certainly not to complain about the quality of their glue and the hamfistedness of the typesetter. And of course now the university can't pulp them.'

'Why not?'

'Think of the screaming! No, I pride myself that we are still riding the wave. Er… was there something special you wanted?'

'What can you do with this?' said Moist, putting one of the new dollars on the table.

Spools picked it up and read it carefully. Then, in a faraway voice, he said: 'I did hear something. Does Vetinari know you're planning this?'

'Mr Spools, I'll bet he knows my shoe size and what I had for breakfast.'

The printer put down the bill as if it was ticking. 'I can see what you're doing. Such a small thing, and yet so dangerous.'

'Can you print them?' said Moist. 'Oh, not that one. I made up a batch just to test the idea. I mean high-quality banknotes, if I can find an artist to draw them.'

'Oh, yes. We are a byword for quality. We're building a new press to keep pace with demand. But what about security?'

'What, in here? No one has ever bothered you so far, have they?'

'No, they haven't. But up until now we haven't had lots of money lying around, if you see what I mean.'