Twango stamped his feet. “Why, at this time of tribulation, must you annoy me with your nonsense? I lack the patience to deal with you! Gark! Gookin! Cugel thinks to shirk his duties!”
Gark and Gookin crept forward. Gookin flung a noose around Cugel’s ankles, while Gark threw a net over Cugel’s head. Cugel fell heavily to the ground, where Gark and Gookin beat him well with short staves.
After a period Twango came to the door. He cried out: “Stop! The clamor offends our ears! If Cugel has changed his mind, let him go about his work.”
Cugel decided to obey Twango’s orders. Cursing under his breath, he dragged the corpse to a shed in the back garden. Then he limped to that hut vacated by Weamish, and here he passed a wakeful night, by reason of sprains, bruises, and contusions.
At an early hour Gark and Gookin pounded on the door. “Out and about your work!” called Gookin. “Twango wishes to inspect the interior of this hut.”
Cugel, despite his aches, had already made such a search, to no avail. He brushed his clothing, adjusted his hat, sauntered from the hut, and stood aside while Gark and Gookin, under Twango’s direction, searched the premises. Soldinck, who apparently had spent the night at Flutic, watched vigilantly from the doorway.
Twango finished the search. “There is nothing here,” he told Soldinck. “Weamish is vindicated!”
“He might have secreted the scales elsewhere!”
“Unlikely! The scales were packed while you watched. Under close guard they were taken to the wagon. You yourself, with Rincz and Jornulk, transferred the cases to your wagon. Weamish had no more opportunity to steal the scales than I myself!”
“Then how do you explain Weamish’s sudden wealth?”
“He found a nest of scales; is that so bizarre?”
Soldinck had nothing more to say. Departing Flutic, he returned over the hill to Saskervoy.
Twango called a staff meeting in the refectory. The group included Yelleg, Malser, Cugel and Bilberd the feeble-minded gardener. Gark and Gookin crouched on a high shelf, monitoring the conduct of all.
Twango spoke somberly. “I stand here today in sorrow! Poor Weamish, while strolling in the dark, suffered an accident and is no longer with us. Sadly, he did not live to enjoy his retirement. This concept alone must give us all cause for reflection!
“There is other news, no less disturbing. Four cases of scales, representing great value, have somehow been pre-empted, or stolen. Does anyone here have information, no matter how trivial, concerning this heinous act?” Twango looked from face to face. “No? … In that case, I have no more to say. All to their tasks, and let Weamish’s lucky find be an inspiration to all!
“One final word! Since Cugel is unfamiliar with the routines of his work, I ask that all extend to him the hand of cheerful good-fellowship and teach him whatever he needs to know. All to work, then, at speed and efficiency!”
Twango called Cugel aside. “Last night we seem to have had a misunderstanding as to the meaning of the word ‘supervisor’. At Flutic, this word denotes a person who supervises the comfort and convenience of his fellow workers, including me, but who by no means controls their conduct.”
“That distinction has already been made clear,” said Cugel shortly.
“Precisely so. Now, as your first duty, you will bury Weamish. His grave is yonder, behind the bilberry bush. At this time you may select a site and excavate a grave for yourself, in the unhappy event that you should die during your tenure at Flutic.”
“This is not to be thought of,” said Cugel. “I have far to go before I die.”
“Weamish spoke in much the same terms,” said Twango. “But he is dead! And his comrades are spared a melancholy task, since he dug, tended and decorated a fine grave.” Twango chuckled sadly. “Weamish must have felt the flutter of the black bird’s wings! Only two days ago I found him cleaning and ordering his grave, and setting all to rights!”
“Two days ago?” Cugel considered. “This was after he had found his scales.”
“True! He was a dedicated man! I trust that you, Cugel, as you live and work at Flutic, will be guided by his conduct!”
“I hope to do exactly that,” said Cugel.
“Now you may bury Weamish. His carrier is yonder in the shed. He built it himself and it is only fitting that you use it to convey his corpse to the grave.”
“That is a kind thought.” With no further words Cugel went to the shed and brought out the carrier: a table rolling on four wheels. Impelled, so it would seem, by a desire to beautify his handiwork, Weamish had attached a skirt of dark blue cloth to hang as a fringe below the top surface.
Cugel loaded Weamish’s body upon the carrier and rolled it out into the back garden. The carrier functioned well, although the top surface seemed insecurely attached to the frame. Odd, thought Cugel, when the vehicle must carry valuable cases of scales! Making an inspection, Cugel found that a peg secured the top surface to the frame. When he pulled away the peg, the top pivoted and would have spilled the corpse had he not been alert.
Cugel investigated the carrier in some detail, then wheeled the corpse to that secluded area north of the manse which Weamish had selected for his eternal rest.
Cugel took stock of the surroundings. A bank of myrhadion trees dangled long festoons of purple blossoms over the grave. Gaps in the foliage allowed a view along the beach and over the sea. To the left a slope grown over with bitterbush and syrinx descended to the pond of black slime.
Already Yelleg and Malser were at work. Hunching and shuddering to the chill, they dived from a platform into the slime. Pulling themselves as deep as possible by means of weights and ropes, they groped for scales, and at last emerged panting and gasping and dripping black ooze.
Cugel gave his head a shake of distaste, then uttered a sharp exclamation as something stung his right buttock. Jerking about he discovered Gark watching from under the broad leaf of a madder plant. He carried a small contrivance by which he could launch pebbles, and which he had evidently used upon Cugel. Gark adjusted the bill of his red cap and hopped forward. “Work at speed, Cugel! There is much to be done!”
Cugel deigned no response. With all dignity he unloaded the corpse, and Gark took his leave.
Weamish indeed had maintained his grave with pride. The hole, five feet deep, had been dug square and true, although at the bottom and to the side the dirt seemed loose and friable. Cugel nodded with quiet satisfaction.
“Quite likely,” Cugel told himself. “Not at all unlikely.”
With spade in hand he jumped into the grave and prodded into the dirt. From the corner of his eye he noticed the approach of a small figure in a red cap. Gark had returned, hoping to catch Cugel unaware, and fair game for another skillfully aimed pebble. Cugel loaded the spade with dirt, swung it high, up and over, and heard a gratifying squawk of surprise.
Cugel climbed from the grave. Gark squatted at a little distance, shaking the dirt from his cap. “You are careless where you throw your dirt!”
Cugel, leaning on his spade, chuckled. “If you skulk through the bushes, how can I see you?”
“The responsibility is yours. It is my duty to inspect your work.”
“Jump down into the grave, where you may inspect at close range!”
Gark’s eyes bulged in outrage, and he gnashed the chitinous parts of his mouth. “Do you take me for a numbskull? Get on with your work! Twango will not pay good terces for idle hours of dreaming!”
