Стража! Стража!

           PooroldVimes,hereingutter.Butthat’swherehestarted.PooroldVimes,withthewaterswirlinginunderbreastplate.PooroldVimes,watchingrestofgutter’scontentsoozeby.Prob’lyevenpooroldGas-kinhasgotbetterviewnow,hethought.

           Lessee...he’dgoneoffafterthefuneralandgotdrunk.No,notdrunk,anotherword,endedwith’er’.Drunker,thatwasit.Becauseworldalltwistedupandwrong,likedistortedglass,onlycamebackintofocusifyoulookedatitthroughbottomofbottle.

           Somethingelsenow,whatwasit.

           Oh,yes.Night-time.Timeforduty.NotforGaskin,though.Havetogetnewfellow.Newfellowcominganyway,wasn’tthatit?Somestickfromthehicks.Writtenletter.Sometickfromthesnicks...

           Vimesgaveup,andslumpedback.Theguttercontinuedtoswirl.

           Overhead,thelightedlettersfizzedandflickeredintherain.

           ...

           Itwasn’tonlythefreshmountainairthathadgivenCarrothishugephysique.Beingbroughtupinagoldminerunbydwarfsandworkingatwelve-hourdayhaulingwagonstothesurfacemusthavehelped.

           Hewalkedwithastoop.Whatwilldothatisbeingbroughtupinagoldminerunbydwarfswhothoughtthatfivefeetwasagoodheightforaceiling.

           He’dalwaysknownhewasdifferent.Morebruisedforonething.Andthenonedayhisfatherhadcomeuptohimor,rather,comeuptohiswaist,andtoldhimthathewasnot,infact,ashehadalwaysbelieved,adwarf.