Free The World of Poo by Terry Pratchett

Soake or from the Park Lane cesspits. It’s all down to diet in the end: what goes in must come out. This barge is from the Cable Street area, that’s mostly dwarfs, very concentrated and compact, needs to stand a bit before we can use it. The other problem is that some of the deep-downers use fine chain-mail for the paperwork and if a few links drop in and aren’t picked out it causes merry hell with the grinding machine.’
    They walked back into the yard and Barker pointed to a covered area where several people with clipboards were walking up and down a long trestle table making notes and occasionally sniffing the contents of long-handled, saucer-like containers. ‘Over there are the nosers,’ he said. ‘They can tell, almost to the street, where the stuff comes from and what’s in it, then they can blend the right mix to go to the tanners or the dyers or perfume makers or whatever. Clever blokes. And you see that big heap of fish bones? That’s come from the Temple of Offler; it’s been a big feast day up there. And over here is the remains of last year’s beetroot festival that the folks from Uberwald staged. The tanners had a real problem with pink leather until we separated it out for them.’

    ‘What happens to the stuff from the Menagerie?’ asked Geoffrey.
    ‘We keep that separate too, that comes under exotics, along with the stuff from the College of Heralds. Good thing is the elephant poo is bagged up and sold for compost as soon as it comes in, otherwise it’d take over the place.’
    As Geoffrey and Barker walked along by one of the moving belts, Sir Harry joined them again. He’d taken off his hat and overcoat and was wearing a brown cotton smock with a row of cigars in the top pocket, a flat cap and leather boots. ‘I hope you’re impressed by what you’ve seen, lad?’ he asked.
    Before Geoffrey could answer, a dwarf climbed up to a platform in the centre of the yard and blew an enormous horn. ‘That’s old Helmhammerhand sounding the shift change,’ said Sir Harry, looking at his watch. ‘It must be time for a spot of lunch. Right, young lad, let’s go and see what we have to eat today. On your way up to my office use the facilities. Here’s the key, make sure you lock it after you.’
    In this lavatory, Geoffrey was interested to see there was a large wad of old newspaper hanging on a hook; but the soap was scented and the towel was clean. He smiled and thought: Sir Harry King doesn’t waste anything.
     
    The moment Geoffrey arrived back in the office Sir Harry lifted a large wicker hamper on to his desk, pulled out a packet of sandwiches and two slices of cake, and passed them across.
    ‘And here’s a bottle of lemonade and a glass, Geoffrey,’ said Sir Harry.
    ‘Are you going to have some?’ asked Geoffrey politely.
    ‘No, lad, I’m having a bottle of beer. As for food, I have to tell you, young man, that what I like most is leftovers. I love leftovers and my good lady wife, who has Cook send lunch up every day, has trained her in the art of creating leftovers without the necessity of the posh meal beforehand.
I’ve
got cold mutton chops with Merkle and Stingbat’s very fine brown sauce. Lovely! Tuck in, lad, and then I’ll get you taken home.’
    ‘Thank you very much indeed, Sir Harry,’ said Geoffrey, finishing every drop of his lemonade so that there would be no leftover. ‘It’s been a really interesting day and I think I must have seen more poo than any other boy in the world!’
    ‘Well, then, here’s a present for you,’ said Sir Harry. ‘I owe you a dollar for the poo-sticks race, and no doubt young Widdler has been leaving me a few presents around the place, so this here paperweight is a very special item indeed. They call them Pearls of the Pavement; I got young Derek Proust to do me a one-off.’ He handed Geoffrey a perfect replica of a small white dog turd in which a large gold dollar was embedded. ‘Put this in your museum, lad, it’s the only