‘The buildings don’t have to be little palaces,’ Moist said, ‘just comfortable, with a bit of a garden, which is nice for the kiddies, and then everyone is happy and you’ve got it made. After all, who doesn’t like to have a place close to their work? Nice and warm with all the coal you need thrown in.’

Harry King would probably punch anyone who called him a philanthropist, but beneath the grumbling there was an undercurrent of curious softness. Elderly employees, no matter their species, ended up with a pension, a rare beast in Ankh-Morpork as a whole, and Moist, as Harry’s bank manager, was aware that expensive hospital bills had a habit of disappearing when he got to hear about them. And most certainly at Hogswatch, Harry, grumbling like an elderly troll with a headache, nevertheless made sure all employees had actual named meat on their tables, and lots of it.[52]

Moist, who knew his man, continued, ‘Look at it like this: I know that as a self-made man, sharing would be anathema to your soul, and so you could take all the risk and become as rich as Creosote. However, it seems to me, Harry, that you’re already as rich as Creosote and so, as a scoundrel, I’d suggest that another fortune is not exactly what you need right now! As your bank manager I’d like to suggest that sharing both the risks and the profits would be the most prudent and socially acceptable way.’

For a moment Moist saw the psyche of Harry King putting together a retort that social acceptability could go and get its hands dirty by doing a proper day’s work rather than interfering with honest entrepreneurs who were working their guts out day and night. But Moist also saw the grin, and realized that Harry knew this was all part of the solution. After all, Lord Vetinari liked the people of Ankh-Morpork to feel they had a stake in their city.

‘Anyway,’ he said, to clinch it, ‘Vetinari wants the Uberwald route and he’s the ultimate boss. Who knows, the city might be very generous with its level of funding. The trains go round and round and so does the money.’

The main line to Quirm was completed with a ceremony at the Ankh-Morpork terminus in which, regrettably, alcohol played a major role. The new engine was launched and named Fierté d’Quirm with an especially good bottle of champagne smashed across its boiler by the Marquis des Aix en Pains and his wife who, Moist noticed, was now very cheerfully, as they say in Quirm, enceinte.

And amid all the celebrations, it seemed that it was only Moist who noticed that Simnel had wandered away from the party to wipe the engine clean of sizzling champagne with his handkerchief, which immediately became a greasy rag. He gave Moist a severe look.