'That's the page for dwarfs,' sighed Glenda. 'Come on, get your things and I'll take you home.'
Juliet was still reading as they waited for the horse bus. Such sudden devotion to a printed page worried Glenda. The last thing she wanted was to see her friend getting ideas in her head. There was such a lot of room in there for them to bounce around and do damage. Glenda herself was reading one of her cheap novels wrapped in a page of the Times. She read the way a cat eats: furtively, daring anyone to notice.
While the horses plodded up towards Dolly Sisters, she took her scarf out of her bag and absent-mindedly wrapped it around her wrist. Personally, she hated the violence of the football, but it was important to belong. Not belonging, especially after a big game, could be dangerous to your health. It was important to show the right colours on your home turf. It was important to fit in.
For some reason, that thought immediately turned her mind to Nutt. How strange he was. Kind of ugly, but very clean. He had stunk of soap and seemed so nervous. There was something about him...
The air in the Uncommon Room had gone as cold as meltwater.
'Are you telling us, Mister Stibbons, that we should be seen to enter a game for bullies, louts and roughs?' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. 'That would be impossible!'
'Unlikely, yes. Impossible? No,' said Ponder wearily.
'Most certainly not possible!' said the Senior Wrangler, nodding at the Chair. 'We would be trading kicks with people from the gutters!'
'My grandfather scored two goals in a match against Dimwell,' said Ridcully, in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. 'Most people never managed one in their lives, in those days. I think the most number of goals scored by one man in his whole life is four. That was Dave Likely, of course.'
There was a ripple of hurried rethinking and retrenchment.
'Ah, well, of course, those were different times,' said the Senior Wrangler, suddenly all syrup. 'I'm sure that even skilled workmen occasionally took part in a spirit of fun.'
'It wasn't much fun if they ran into Granddad,' said Ridcully, with a faint little grin. 'He was a prizefighter. He knocked people down for money and pubs sent for him if there was a really dangerous brawl. Of course, in a sense, this made it even more dangerous, but by then most of it was out in the street.'
'He threw people out of the buildings?'
'Oh yes. In fairness, it was usually from the ground floor and he always opened the window first. He was a very gentle man, I understand. Made musical boxes for a living, very delicate, won awards for them. Teetotal, you know, and quite religious as well. The punching was just a job of casual work. I know for a fact he never tore off anything that couldn't be stitched on again. A decent chap, by all accounts. Never met him, unfortunately. I've always wished I had something to remember the old boy by.'
As one wizard, the faculty looked down at Ridcully's huge hands. They were the size of frying pans. He cracked his knuckles. There was an echo.
'Mister Stibbons, all we need to do is engage another team and lose?' he said.
'That's right, Archchancellor,' said Ponder. 'You simply forfeit the game.'
'But losing means being seen not to win, am I right?'
'That would be so, yes.'
'Then I rather think we ought to win, don't you?'
'Really, Mustrum, this is going too far,' said the Senior Wrangler.
'Excuse me?' said Ridcully, raising his eyebrows. 'May I remind you that the Archchancellor of this university is, by college statute, the first among equals?'
'Of course.'
'Good. Well, I am he. The word first is, I think, germane here. I see you scribbling in your little notebook, Mister Stibbons?'
'Yes, Archchancellor. I'm looking to see if we could manage without the bequest.'
'Good man,' said the Senior Wrangler, glaring at Ridcully. 'I knew there was no reason to panic.'
'In fact I'm pleased to say that I think we could rub along quite well with only a minimal cut in expenditure,' Ponder went on.
'There,' said the Senior Wrangler, looking triumphantly at the first among equals, 'you see what happens if you don't simply panic.'
'Indeed,' said Ridcully calmly. With his gaze still fixed on the Senior Wrangler he added, 'Mister Stibbons, would you be so kind as to enlighten the rest of us: to what, in reality, does a "minimal cut in expenditure" equate?'
'The bequest is a trust,' said Ponder, still scribbling. 'We have the use of the significant income from the very wise investments of the Bigger trustees, but we cannot touch the capital. Nevertheless, the income is enough to cover-I'm sorry to be imprecise-about eighty-seven point four per cent of the university's food bill.'