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ye—”
    He stopped. A change had come across Stanley’s face; it smoothed out, lost the vague sense that its owner was about to attempt to gnaw your ear off.
    “Last year the combined workshops (or ‘pinneries’) of Ankh-Morpork turned out twenty-seven million, eight hundred and eighty thousand, nine hundred and seventy-eight pins,” said Stanley, staring into a pin-filled, private universe. “That includes wax-headed, steels, brassers, silver-headed (and full silver), extra large, machine- and handmade, reflexed and novelty, but not lapel pins, which should not be grouped with the true pins at all, since they are technically known as ‘sports’ or ‘blazons,’ sir—”
    “Ah yes, I think I once saw a magazine or something,” said Moist desperately. “It was called, er… Pins Monthly ?”
    “Oh dear,” said Groat behind him. Stanley’s face contorted in something that looked like a cat’s bottom with a nose.
    “That’s for hobbyists ,” he hissed. “They’re not true ‘pinheads’! They don’t care about pins! Oh, they say so, but they have a whole page of needles every month now. Needles? Anyone could collect needles! They’re only pins with holes in! Anyway, what about Popular Needles ? But they just don’t want to know!”
    “Stanley is editor of Total Pins ,” Groat whispered behind Moist.
    “I don’t think I saw that one—” Moist began.
    “Stanley, go and help Mr. Lipwig’s assistant find a shovel, will you?” said Groat, raising his voice. “Then go and sort your pins again until you feel better. Mr. Lipwig doesn’t want to see one of your Little Moments.” He gave Moist a blank look.
    “—they had an article last month about pincushions ,” muttered Stanley, stamping out of the room. The golem followed him.
    “He’s a good lad,” said Groat when they were gone. “Just a bit cup-and-plate in the head. Leave him alone with his pins and he’s no trouble at all. Gets a bit…intense at times, that’s all. Oh, and on that subject, there’s the third member of our jolly little team, sir—”
    A large black-and-white cat had walked into the room. It paid no attention to Moist or Groat, but progressed slowly across the floor toward a battered and unraveling basket. Moist was in the way. The cat continued until its head butted gently against Moist’s leg, and stopped.
    “That’s Mr. Tiddles, sir,” said Groat.
    “ Tiddles? ” said Moist. “You mean that really is a cat’s name? I thought it was just a joke.”
    “Not so much a name, sir, more of a description,” said Groat. “You’d better move, sir, otherwise he’ll just stand there all day. Twenty years old, he is, and a bit set in his ways.”
    Moist stepped aside. Unperturbed, the cat continued to the basket, where it curled up.
    “Is he blind?” said Moist.
    “No, sir. He has his routine and he sticks to it, sir, sticks to it to the very second. Very patient, for a cat. Doesn’t like the furniture being moved. You’ll get used to him.”
    Not knowing what to say, but feeling that he should say something, Moist nodded toward the array of bottles on Groat’s desk.
    “You dabble in alchemy, Mr. Groat?” he said.
    “Nossir! I practice nat’ral medicine!” said Groat proudly. “Don’t believe in doctors, sir! Never a day’s illness in my life, sir!” He thumped his chest, making a thlap noise not normally associated with living tissue. “Flannelette, goose grease, and hot bread puddin’, sir! Nothing like it for protecting your tubes against the noxious effluviences! I puts a fresh layer on ever week, sir, and you won’t find a sneeze passing my nose, sir. Very healthful, very natural!”
    “Er…good,” said Moist.
    “Worst of ’em all is soap, sir,” said Groat, lowering his voice. “Terrible stuff, sir, washes away the beneficent humors. Leave things be, I say! Keep the tubes running, put sulfur in your socks, and pay attention to your chest protector, and you can laugh at anything!