‘Yes, Stanley. They whisper to me, too.'

‘I remember ‘em last time, talking in the night, Mr Groat,' said Stanley, his voice trembling. ‘I shut my eyes and I keep seeing the writin'...'

‘Yes, Stanley. Don't worry about it. Try not to think about it. It's Mr Lipstick's fault, stirring them up. Leave well alone, I say. They never listen, and then what happens? They find out the hard way'

‘It seems like only yesterday, those watchmen drawing that chalk outline round Mr Mutable,' said Stanley, beginning to tremble. ‘He found out the hard way!'

‘Calm down, now, calm down,' said Groat, patting him gently on the shoulder. ‘You'll set ‘em off. Think about pins.'

‘But it's a cruel shame, Mr Groat, them never being alive long enough to make you Senior Postman!'

Groat sniffed. ‘Oh, that's enough of that. That's not important, Stanley,' he said, his face like thunder.

‘Yes, Mr Groat, but you're an old, old man and you're still only a Junior Postm—' Stanley persisted.

‘I said that's enough , Stanley! Now, just raise that lamp again, will you? Good. That's better. I'll read a page of the Regulations, that always quietens them down.' Groat cleared his throat. ‘I shall now read from the Book of Regulations, Delivery Times (Metropolitan) (Sundays and Octedays excepted),' he announced to the air. ‘As follows: "The hours by which letters should be put into the receiving houses in town for each delivery within the city walls of Ankh-Morpork are as the following: overnight by eight o'clock in the evening, for the first delivery. Morning by eight o'clock, for the second delivery. Morning by ten o'clock, for the third delivery. Morning by twelve o'clock, for the fourth delivery. Afternoon by two o'clock, for the fifth delivery. Afternoon by four o'clock, for the sixth delivery. Afternoon by six o'clock, for the seventh delivery." These are the hours, and I have read them.' Groat hung his head for a moment, and then he closed the book with a snap.

‘Why are we doing this, Mr Groat?' said Stanley meekly.

‘‘Cos of hub-riss,' said Mr Groat. ‘That's what it was. Hub-riss killed the Post Office. Hub-riss and greed and Bloody Stupid Johnson and the New Pie.'

‘A pie, Mr Groat? How could a pie—'

‘Don't ask, Stanley. It gets complicated and there's nothing in it about pins.'

They put out the candles, and left.

When they had gone, a faint whispering started.