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but
it was cheap at the price. As he hauled on the animal's gears
    I wheezed after them, my legs trembling. The beast turned to find
me crouched there. I leapt skyward with a howl and hurled my tuft, shedding
black soil, into the bloody thing's face. It reared and the bloke went over.
I'd actually started a last desperate sprint before I realized it wasn't coming
any more. It trotted off, looking quite jovial, tail up and snorting. Our hero
lay there, winded. My ribs burned. A hand fell on my shoulder.
    "You're under arrest, Lovejoy."
    "Me?" Even that word took three labored inspirations. It
was Geoffrey, vigilant constable of our parish, in his size twenty-one boots
and posh uniform. " Whafor ?"
    "Assault," he said proudly.
    "Don't-be-bloody-silly, Geoffrey," I panted.
    That cheering noise had changed. It was now a chorus of booing, of
all sounds my least favorite. Astonished, I looked round. A crowd— honest, a
real mob—of people thronged the road beyond the hedge. They carried placards
and banners full of exhortation. I didn't bother to look any more; I've never
read an intelligible banner yet. To my surprise I spotted a familiar face among
the mob. Podge Howarth? Out here?
    "Hang on, Geoffrey," I said.
    This hulking great huntsman was hauling himself to his feet as I
stepped up and booted him in the crotch. He doubled with a whoomph that nearly blew Geoffrey's helmet off. The distant boos turned to thunderous
applause.
    "Here, Lovejoy. Stop that," Geoffrey commanded. I eyed
the horse with hate. Jauntily it eyed me back. I decided to abandon ball-kicking
while I was ahead.
    "He tried to kill me, Geoffrey," I explained. "I
want him arrested." I decided to snap the goon's whip in a grandiloquent
gesture for encore, but the whip wouldn't break. All it did was bend. I felt a
duckegg and hoped nobody noticed.
    "Come quietly, Lovejoy. Don't give me all this aggro."
Geoffrey led me off while this bird on her white nag pounded up and demanded
why I wasn't being hanged from the nearest tree.
    "I've arrested him, miss," Geoffrey said respectfully.
"This felon is now in custody."
    Felon? Whacked and bewildered as I was, I couldn't help using up
my few remaining kilojoules in an amazed stare. I'll bet anybody a quid that
Geoffrey doesn't even know what a felon is.
    "He kicked Major Bentham," pronounced this mounted
Valkyrie.
    The crowd's cheers became jeers. A chant of "No, no,
no!" began. My day suddenly brightened.
    "I assaulted nobody, did I?" I yelled.
    "No, no,  no!
    No wonder there are goons everywhere these days. The feeling's
really great. You can say anything, even gibberish, and still emerge president
with the World Bank hanging on every belch.
    Fist aloft, I bawled, " Nidginovgorod yeah!" and unbelievably got a "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" ripping the
clouds over the brook where Tacitus himself had sat and bathed his feet. I
thought, I don't believe this world any more. Maybe I'm a throwback, or a
sport. At least I would have thought that, except nowadays you've to say
heterozygous recessive mutant or some such. . . . Oh, Christ. A large black
saloon car was pulling in by the hedge.
    A somber man emerged, lighting his pipe. Between flashes and puffs
he glanced over to our weird scenario, and beckoned. I plodded over, Geoffrey
coming with that head-lowering pose of the superseded bobby.
    "Wotcher, Ledger."
    He wafted his match out, chin raised like a stag sniffing fire.
"Lovejoy. What're you doing booting the local gentry?"
    "I'm here by invitation. Tinker gave me a message for ten
o'clock, the lady of the house."
    "Nothing to do with fox-hunting?"
    "Eh?" I turned to inspect the immediate universe. The
chanting mob was now walking along the road, placards everywhere. A hairy bloke
was pouring stuff on the ground. Athletic-looking men stripped for marathon
running were scuffing their shoes in the mess. The penny dropped. They were preparing
good old aniseed porridge, which harriers would stamp all over the countryside
to mislead