Pop art guitar player

was the sound of hammering from across the street. A man was nailing something on his door. He glanced around in terror, saw Magrat, and darted inside.
What he had “I’m Weaver the thatcher.”
“And you know who I am?”
“Miss Garlick?”
“Come on, let me in!”
“Are you alone, miss?”
“Yes.”
The crack widened to a Magrat width.
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LOR06 ftttQ LftQ(£6
There was one candle alight in the room. Weaver backed been nailing on the door was a horseshoe.Magrat tied the horse firmly to a tree and slid off its back. There was no reply to her knocking.Who was it who lived here? Carter the weaver, wasn’t it, or Weaver the baker?“Open up, man! It’s me, Magrat Garlick!”There was something white beside the doorstep.It turned out to be a bowl of cream.Again, Magrat thought of the cat Greebo. Smelly, unreli-able, cruel and vindictive—but who purred nicely, and had a bowl of milk every night.“Come on! Open up!”After a while the bolts slid back, and an eye was applied to a very narrow crack.“Yes?”“You’re Carter the baker, aren’t you?”