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There was a hammering on the back door. Magrat opened it. A crowd of brightly dressed and embarrassed dwarfs stepped back hurriedly and then peered up at her.
'Er,' said the one who was apparently the leader, 'is ... is the old witch dead?'
'Which old witch?' said Magrat.
The dwarf looked at her for a while with his mouth open. He turned and had a whispered consultation with his colleagues. Then he turned back.
'How many have you got?'
'There's a choice of two,' said Magrat. She wasn't feeling in a very good mood and wasn't prompted to aid the conversation more than necessary. Uncharacteristic nastiness made her add, 'Free for the asking.'
'Oh.' The dwarf considered this. 'Well, which old witch did the house land on?'
'Nanny? No, she's not dead. She's just a bit stunned. But thanks all the same for asking,' said Magrat. "That's very kind of you.'
This seemed to puzzle the dwarfs. They went into a huddle. There was a lot of sotto voce arguing.
Then the head dwarf turned back to Magrat. He removed his helmet and turned it around and around nervously in his hands.
'Er,' he said, 'can we have her boots?'
'What?'
'Her boots?' said the dwarf, blushing. 'Can we have them, please?'
'What do you want her boots for?'
The dwarf looked at her. Then he turned and went into a huddle with his colleagues again. He turned back to Magrat.
'We've just got this . . . feeling . . . that we ought to have her boots,' he said.
He stood there blinking.
'Well, I'll go and ask,' said Magrat. 'But I don't think she'll say yes.'
As she went to close the door the dwarf twiddled his hat some more.
'They are ruby-coloured, aren't they?' he said.
'Well, they're red,' said Magrat. 'Is red all right?'
'They've got to be red.' All the other dwarfs nodded. 'It's no good if they're not red.'
Magrat gave him a blank look and shut the door.
'Nanny,' she said slowly, when she was back in the kitchen, 'there's some dwarfs outside who want your boots.'
Nanny looked up. She'd found a stale loaf in a cupboard and was industriously chewing. It was amazing what you'd eat if the alternative was dwarf bread.
'What d'they want 'em for?' she said.
'Didn't say. They just said they had a feeling they want your boots.'
'That sounds highly suspicious to me,' said Granny.
'Old Shaker Wistley over Creel Springs way was a devil for boots,' said Nanny, putting down the breadknife. 'Especially black button boots. He used to collect 'em. If he saw you going past in a new pair he had to go and have a lie-down.'
'I reckon that's a bit sophisticated for dwarfs,' said Granny.
