“Beats me why people’d fall over themselves to read a cookery book, though,” she added. This was the kind of good fiscal practice she liked to see. “Got it in a tin up the chimney,” said Nanny Ogg. “What did you do with the three dollars?” “What couldn’t I do with money like that?”
A hundred dollars was a, was a, was…well, it was two fortunes, that was what it was. The whole of the Ramtops, by and large, got by without the complications of capital. Witches didn’t operate in a cash economy. The only word she could think of was “fortune” and that wasn’t adequate. Nanny Ogg stared in horrified fascination at her own fingers. Nanny Ogg’s white face appeared around the edge of the door. “So it’s a good job the money don’t matter,” Granny Weatherwax went on. “I reckon, if there’s any justice, it’s about four or five thousand dollars,” said Granny quietly. What I say is, if you’ve got your health-” “That’s good, ’cos I reckon this Master Goatberger owes you a bit more than you got, if there’s any justice in the world,” said Granny. “I couldn’t subtract a fart from a plate of beans.” “Oh, you know me, Esme,” said Nanny cheerfully. Now she drew a circle around the final figure. “You’ve never been very good at numbers, have you?” said Granny. Nanny Ogg poked her head around the scullery door. “But you enjoyed it, did you?” she called out. She stared at the result and drew two lines under it. “I’ll make another cup of tea, shall I?” said Nanny, relieved that the conversation appeared to be coming to a peaceful end. And you’d probably have to tip someone a couple of pennies to sell it… Angular figures danced from column to column. The slate pencil squeaked across the gray tablet. “I bin keeping it by me in case I wake up in the night and I get an idea for a recipe, see,” said Nanny. “You ain’t got a pencil about you, have you? You being a literary type and all?” “After all, there’s a lot you can do with three dollars,” said Nanny. It couldn’t be a lot: they had sort of printing mills to do the actual work. She wondered how much it cost to do a book. “I can see that,” said Granny, still dwelling in the world of numbers. I dint want him saying he wanted ’em back.” “And that was it, was it? You never wrote to him again?” Her lips moved silently as she thought about numbers. Numbers were used only by people who wanted to put one over on you. She assumed that anything written down was probably a lie, and that applied to numbers, too. Granny Weatherwax was grudgingly literate but keenly numerate. And then they sent the money back afterward, only they got it wrong and sent three dollars extra.” “You sent them some money to get it all printed?” she said. More Than Twenty Thoufand Solde! One half dollar.” Granny cast her gimlet gaze to the bottom of the crowded cover, where it said, in very small lettering, “CXXviith Printyng. Goatberger the Almanac man said it’d make it sound more mysterious.” “‘Bye A Lancre Witch.’ Hah! Why dint you put your own name on it, eh? Books’ve got to have a name on ’em so’s everyone knows who’s guilty.”
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