Dorro at least had the presence of mind to call for Nurse Pym. He called out to Gadget Pinkle, and the red-haired boy was off like a shot. Someone had fetched Sheriff Forgo a chair so he could sit in the sun. Another sprinted to the Bumbling Badger and returned with a well-cooked lamb leg, some crusty bread, and a small tankard of ale.
The lawman’s eyes bulged when he saw the basket of food, though it was at that precise moment that Nurse Pym showed up. “Hold on now, Forgo. Don’t you dare take a bite of that lamb!”
“Wha?...” Forgo was crestfallen. “I haven’t eaten for weeks. Look at me—I’m as skinny as Bedminster Shoe!”
The crowd laughed as Pym checked Forgo’s eyes and tongue and listened to his chest. “Well, I’ll be darned; your lungs are as empty as your head. I can’t hear any sign of the Grippe.” Another cheer from the Thimble Downers.
“Fine, eat your meal, but slowly. You don’t want to lose your lunch as soon as you down it, if you get my meaning.”
Rubbing his hands together gleefully, Forgo grabbed the basket while still chomping on the lamb bone. “Slow down, Forgo! Oh, I give up—I have real patients to deal with.”
“Thank you, Jessie,” squeaked the Sheriff, drawing an evil glare from the healer (who hated being called by her given name), but hurrahs from the crowd. “Long live Nurse Pym! Long live Nurse Pym!” they cried. And truly, Pym was one of the hardest working folks in all Thimble Down.
“Now Winderiver, what are you doing here, addressing the crowd?” continued Forgo between bites. “Don’t tell me—”
“Don’t you mock me, Sheriff! I’ve been working my bottom off as your temporary replacement and am knackered through and through,” snarled the bookmaster. “However, I’d be more than delighted to return the post to you. This occupation is thankless!”
Choosing diplomacy over an easy laugh, Forgo quietly thanked Dorro for covering his job for him and said he might need to stay on a few days more until he got his strength back. A few Thimble Downers even clapped for Dorro, which diffused the situation and gave the sensitive bookmaster a little feeling of warmth from his fellow villagers.
“So what’s the story with these Dwarves?” grumbled Forgo, as he moved on to the crusty bread and ale.
“You know as much as I do,” said Dorro, “and in fact, now we’ll learn together.”
Again the crowd parted and, indeed, a gang of Dwarves stomped right up to the gaol where Dorro, Forgo, and the other Northlanders were standing. One of the fiercest Battle Dwarves emerged from the back of the pack and spoke: “We have come for vengeance, little Halflings. One of our own is dead because of you and I want his head brought to me. And if you can’t provide that, we shall find the villain for ourselves and cut his tongue, boil his feet, and remove his toes and fingers one by one with a dull knife. At that point, we may let him live or simply remove his head with my axe. Now—where is he?”
“Hello, sister.”
The fierce Dwarf turned its head and opened its mouth, yet no sound came out.
Crumble kept speaking instead: “Sheriff and Mr. Dorro … may I introduce the one and only Malachite Molly, one of the most lethal Dwarves in all the Northland. She has slain hundreds of invading goblins and trolls and, along with her fighters, kept us safe for decades. Yet you should also know her other name. This here is my former sister-in-law, Aramina. That is, Mrs. Aramina Wump.”
Dorro’s face fell into a dumb stare.
“Mrs. Wump?”