this pub?’
The goat looked down his nose – and it was a nose a dowager would have beenproud of – at the men around the bar and started his count, delicately hitting the floor with his hoof, the noise suddenly being the only sound in the place.
He hit the floor eight times. ‘He got it right!’ declared the barman.
‘I saw something like that afore,’ said one of the men. ‘There was a travelling show. You know, clowns and tightrope walkers and folk with no arms and travelling doctors. fn1 They called it a carnival. And they had a horse they said could count. But it was just a trick.’
Geoffrey smiled and said, ‘If a couple of you gentlemen would care to step out for a moment, I will ask my goat to do it again, and you will see that there is no trick involved.’
Intrigued now, several of the men stepped out while the others started to take bets amongst themselves.
‘Gentlemen, mygoat will tell you how many people are still in the room,’ said Geoffrey.
Once again, daintily, Mephistopheles tapped out the correct number.
Hearing the cheers, the men who had gone out came back in again, looking curious – and Mephistopheles’s hoof registered each one as he entered. The barman laughed. ‘This trick deserves a meal for you and your remarkable goat, mister. What does he like?’
‘It’s no trick, I assure you, but thank you. Mephistopheles will eat almost anything – he’s a goat. Some scraps would be most acceptable. And for myself, just some bread would be welcome.’
A bowl of kitchen scraps was produced for Mephistopheles and Geoffrey sat down beside him with his pint and a slab of bread and butter, chatting to some of the men who were interested in the goat. An interestwhich only deepened when Mephistopheles went out in the direction of the privy and after a while came back again.
‘You actually managed to get him to do that?’ said one of them in wonder.
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I trained him from when he was very small. He’s quite docile really. Well, if I’m around.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It means he does what he’s told, but he has a mind of his own as well.I wouldn’t lose him for anything.’
Just then, there were raised voices at the other end of the bar as one drinker, filled with the bluster that ale can give to a man, started a fight with someone else who had just come in. The more sensible people moved away as the two began to trade blows, seemingly intent on beating one another to death, while the barman bellowed about the damage to his furnitureand threatened to wallop them with his grandfather’s knobkerrie, a souvenir from the Klatchian campaign, if they didn’t stop.
Mephistopheles was suddenly alert at Geoffrey’s side, and every drinker who was sober understood in his soul that this was no time to be unpleasant to the lad. They didn’t know how they knew, but there was a kind of visceral power there waiting to be unleashed.
‘Why arethey fighting? What’s wrong?’ Geoffrey asked his neighbour.
‘An old grudge about a young lady,’ said the man, rolling his eyes. ‘A bad business. Someone’s going to get hurt, you mark my words.’
To everyone’s astonishment Geoffrey strolled across the pub, his goat watching his every step, dodged the wildly swinging blows and stood between the two men, saying, ‘There’s no need to fight, you know.’
The barman’s face fell – he knew what happened to people who tried to get between two idiots smelling blood. And then he could hardly believe his eyes, for the two men abruptly stopped fighting and were standing there, looking rather bemused.
‘Why don’t you two just meet the young lady and see what she thinks before you start beating each other to death?’ Geoffrey said softly.
The men lookedat one another and the bigger of the two said: ‘He’s right, you know.’
And the pub audience laughed as the two looked around at the wreckage, seemingly amazed that this could have had anything to do
The goat looked down his nose – and it was a nose a dowager would have beenproud of – at the men around the bar and started his count, delicately hitting the floor with his hoof, the noise suddenly being the only sound in the place.
He hit the floor eight times. ‘He got it right!’ declared the barman.
‘I saw something like that afore,’ said one of the men. ‘There was a travelling show. You know, clowns and tightrope walkers and folk with no arms and travelling doctors. fn1 They called it a carnival. And they had a horse they said could count. But it was just a trick.’
Geoffrey smiled and said, ‘If a couple of you gentlemen would care to step out for a moment, I will ask my goat to do it again, and you will see that there is no trick involved.’
Intrigued now, several of the men stepped out while the others started to take bets amongst themselves.
‘Gentlemen, mygoat will tell you how many people are still in the room,’ said Geoffrey.
Once again, daintily, Mephistopheles tapped out the correct number.
Hearing the cheers, the men who had gone out came back in again, looking curious – and Mephistopheles’s hoof registered each one as he entered. The barman laughed. ‘This trick deserves a meal for you and your remarkable goat, mister. What does he like?’
‘It’s no trick, I assure you, but thank you. Mephistopheles will eat almost anything – he’s a goat. Some scraps would be most acceptable. And for myself, just some bread would be welcome.’
A bowl of kitchen scraps was produced for Mephistopheles and Geoffrey sat down beside him with his pint and a slab of bread and butter, chatting to some of the men who were interested in the goat. An interestwhich only deepened when Mephistopheles went out in the direction of the privy and after a while came back again.
‘You actually managed to get him to do that?’ said one of them in wonder.
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I trained him from when he was very small. He’s quite docile really. Well, if I’m around.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It means he does what he’s told, but he has a mind of his own as well.I wouldn’t lose him for anything.’
Just then, there were raised voices at the other end of the bar as one drinker, filled with the bluster that ale can give to a man, started a fight with someone else who had just come in. The more sensible people moved away as the two began to trade blows, seemingly intent on beating one another to death, while the barman bellowed about the damage to his furnitureand threatened to wallop them with his grandfather’s knobkerrie, a souvenir from the Klatchian campaign, if they didn’t stop.
Mephistopheles was suddenly alert at Geoffrey’s side, and every drinker who was sober understood in his soul that this was no time to be unpleasant to the lad. They didn’t know how they knew, but there was a kind of visceral power there waiting to be unleashed.
‘Why arethey fighting? What’s wrong?’ Geoffrey asked his neighbour.
‘An old grudge about a young lady,’ said the man, rolling his eyes. ‘A bad business. Someone’s going to get hurt, you mark my words.’
To everyone’s astonishment Geoffrey strolled across the pub, his goat watching his every step, dodged the wildly swinging blows and stood between the two men, saying, ‘There’s no need to fight, you know.’
The barman’s face fell – he knew what happened to people who tried to get between two idiots smelling blood. And then he could hardly believe his eyes, for the two men abruptly stopped fighting and were standing there, looking rather bemused.
‘Why don’t you two just meet the young lady and see what she thinks before you start beating each other to death?’ Geoffrey said softly.
The men lookedat one another and the bigger of the two said: ‘He’s right, you know.’
And the pub audience laughed as the two looked around at the wreckage, seemingly amazed that this could have had anything to do
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