“C’mon Gadget, we have business to attend to.”
“What about the Sheriff?”
“I just checked on him, and he’s resting comfortably—at least as much as can be expected,” said the Sheriff Pro Tempore. Checking his silver pocket watch for the time, Dorro looked around the desk for a piece of parchment and a few pencils; they’d need these tools on their current mission more than clubs or handcuffs.
“Mrs. Bluebell and her daughter will be stopping by within the half hour, so Forgo will be well cared for. I’ve also told all the shop merchants around the gaol to keep an ear out for him. Now let’s be off!”
Dorro and Gadget were soon on their way to the Hanging Stoat, where the former thought he might dig up information on the thief. Along the way, he wondered about the thin, awkward lad next to him; really, he knew next to nothing about Gadget Pinkle. Did anyone, in fact?
“Gadget, how long have you been living in the village?”
“Oh, just a year or two. I came from Water-Down, looking for work.”
“Ah, that nefarious seaport. I don’t love the place, I’ll be honest with you—I have bad memories of it,” said Dorro ruefully, remembering his recent mission there with Sheriff Forgo. “I’d have thought there were plenty of opportunities for jobs and apprenticeships.”
Gadget flinched and seemed reluctant to talk about his earlier life, but soldiered on, “I just didn’t like it there. I don’t care for water, nor would I take a position on a ship. It’s a hard life, and I like my feet on dry land, I do. I just want steady work and a nice place to settle. Thimble Down seems like that place.”
“Do you have family?”
“My sister moved here a few years ago with her husband and wrote that she loved it, but she moved on since her man, Fletch, is a carpenter and goes where the work takes him. I was working odd jobs around the village and getting by, enough to pay the rent on the burrow. Sheriff Forgo took me on for a few hours a day and, well, here we are. It’s not an exciting story, sorry to say.”
Dorro laughed. “I’m afraid few of us lead exciting lives. My life in the library, amongst books and scrolls would seem dull to just about anyone. Of your odd jobs, which did you like best?”
“I was a fair chimney-sweep! It was a profession that was well suited to my skinny nature,” he laughed. “Dirty, sure, but there was no one to bother you, and I didn’t mind the soot. Only the baths—those, I had too many of!” He laughed again.
“I should hire you at the Perch; it’s been far too many years since I’ve had the chimney done. Now, here’s the Hanging Stoat—let’s get to work!”
They ventured into the dark tavern on the sunny day and let their eyes adjust for a few seconds. They spied Mr. Mungo, who was drying mugs at the bar. “Mr. Dorro, a treat to see you, especially since you’re our new Sheriff! Congratulations, sir.”
Waving off his compliment, the bookmaster whispered, “Mungo, have you heard anything about our Pie Thief? Your patrons must be talking about him.”
“Oh indeed, sir. It’s a constant topic.”
“And …?” Dorro was hoping that Mungo would take the hint.
“Oh! The long ’n’ short of it is that no one has a clue. No one from the village, it seems. Maybe rogues in the forest or from Nob. Jonas Wyble says it’s a ghostly wight—some greedy beggar who’s risen from the dead to steal back all the things he lost or sold in life. And Minty Pinter says its them elves, come back to raze the village. Those are the two most popular theories, at least.”
Inwardly rolling his eyes, Dorro realized he was getting nowhere with Mr. Mungo, nor likely would he find anything of interest at the Hanging Stoat. To be polite, he ordered a cider for himself and Gadget, but otherwise, had nothing else to say. Suddenly he noticed a group at a back table in the shadows; he hadn’t noticed them at first.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll be back in a second.” Grabbing his cider, Dorro ambled across the room to the dark recesses of the tavern. “Hullo, Crumble! Hello all!”
“Why, if it ain’t Mr. Dorro,” said the grizzled Dwarf, putting down his mug of ale, its froth still clinging to his big beard. “Come have a seat. Wump—move over, you great goat, and let our friend have a seat!”
Crumble’s brother Wump grudgingly got up and snorted, taking his tankard to the far side of the table. “Sorry about that, Mr. Dorro. Wump is in a bit of a snit today; didn’t get a good night’s rest, I suppose. What brings you to the Stoat? I must say, we’ve taken a shine to it—the dim light here reminds us of home. And the ale is first-rate, at least once we add a little belladonna.”
Crumble took another big draught, as did his comrades Flume, Two-Toes, and Magpie. Wump just glowered in the corner, not acknowledging anyone.
“Since we last met, Crumble, our poor Sheriff Forgo has been taken ill by the Grippe, and stranger yet, the Mayor appointed me his replacement. My first order of business is to catch this thief who’s been plaguing the village. You haven’t heard anything?”
Two-Toes chimed in, “We haven’t heard much else beside that and the Grippe—my, you have a troubled town, sir. Dark times have befallen your Thimble Down.”
“True, I’m afraid,” continued Dorro. “What do you do about thieves in your world, Crumble?”
“It’s not too common an occurrence, as we share our food and hospitality freely. But our gold and gems are another matter, and on occasion, jealously makes a Dwarf steal something that don’t rightfully belong to him.”
“So what do you do?”
“It depends, but if a Dwarf is caught in the act, he might be exiled from our lands. But all Dwarves become a little greedy at times—it’s our nature to revere stones and metals of the finest cut and forging—and well, I’m sure we’ve all pinched something at one time or another.”
At that, the other Dwarves snickered in agreement; even Wump cracked a knowing leer.
“But it must be illegal. What happens when you catch a thief?”
“We bag’ em!” said Flume with glee.
“Aye, we bag ’em up real good!” gloated Magpie, clapping his hands together. “I got bagged once—didn’t sit for a week!” More laughing and jocularity ensued. “Y’see, Mr. Dorro, when we Northlanders catch a thief, we actually put them into a large leather satchel, stitched together from animal hides.”
“And that’s it?” asked Dorro, which was met with more derisive laughs from the Dwarves.
“No, Mr. Dorro—next we kick the living life out of ’em!” roared Two-Toes, drawing the others into hysterics.
Crumble continued, “Y’see, we’re pretty tough, us Dwarves, so you can’t really hurt us too bad. But if you’re in a bag, you can’t run away like a coward—you gotta stay put and take your lumps like a Dwarf. And by lumps, I mean, we might hurl lumps of rock, clay, sticks, gold, or anything that’s hard at the fool in the bag.”
Added Flume, “We might toss in a few punches and kicks for good measure, too, and give him—and sometimes her—a good thrashin’, all to teach ’em not to steal again. After an hour or so, they’ve learned their lesson. Only a very few end up in the bag for a second time.”
“Only the very stupid ones!” roared Magpie.
At that, the five Dwarves were bursting into new fits of laughter, with Flume giggling so hard he actually fell off his chair. Dorro was horrified that this violent act could be the subject of such mirth, but he knew little of the Dwarves and their ways. Imagine, being stuffed into a leather sack, left in the dark, and brutally beaten by rocks, sticks, and fists.
The bookmaster shuddered at the thought. Yet another thought popped into his mind: could any of the Dwarves be his thief or, indeed, thieves. Indeed, they were crafty and agile and, moreover, had no threat of “the bag” hanging over their heads here in Thimble Down. They could steal with impunity. Also, he wondered why they were loafing here at the Hanging Stoat and not working at the smeltery on this day.
Dorro thanked Crumble and his brothers for their illuminating stories and took his leave. He had gained some information, but also left the Hanging Stoat more troubled than when he arrived.