A Slip in Time Read Free

pushed in front of him and sipped at it. Beer! Ugh! But it stopped the cough.
    The two of them seemed to have turned into four. There was a big lad sitting beside Fadge, boxing him in beside the wall. He wore a red velvet jacket worn down to white cotton at the wrists and elbows, a silk scarf dashingly arranged to cover the worst of the soup stains on his shirt front, and a brown bowler hat that was far too good for him.
    â€˜Well, well!’ said the big lad, looking round the smoky room. ‘This is nice! And how’s life treating you, young Fadge?’
    â€˜Mustn’t grumble, Masher,’ muttered Fadge, grimly shovelling in forkfuls of mutton pie till his cheeks were bulging like a hamster.
    â€˜Mustn’t get too fat, neither,’ muttered the Masher, sliding Fadge’s plate across to himself. ‘Or you’ll be no use to me at all.’ He snapped his fingers. Dumbly, Fadge handed over his knife and fork and watched as the rest of his dinner began to disappear down the Masher’s throat.
    The Masher swallowed, burped and nodded to the scarecrow figure perched on the settle beside Jack. ‘Rusty!’
    A claw-like hand reached out and pushed the pint pot that had once – in Fadge’s dreams – been his, away from Jack and back across the table for the Masher to take a good, long swig.
    Jack sneaked a glance at the well-named Rusty. Rust-red hair straggling out from under a filthy cap, rusty-black coat, rusty-brown dirt under his fingernails and a voice, when he spoke, which wasn’t often, that sounded likecoffin nails rubbing together for company.
    Jack, easing himself away, in case any of the rustiness should rub off, felt the Masher’s good eye fixed on him. ‘Who’s this, then?’ demanded the Masher.
    â€˜That’s Jack,’ said Fadge.
    â€˜Jack who? Jack Frost? Jack Sprat? Jack Tar? Ha ha! Jack-in-the-box?’
    â€˜Jack Farthing,’ said Jack, doing his best not to flinch away from the Masher’s dragonbreath. Stand up to bullies, Grandad always said. Don’t try to pick a fight, just look ’em in the eye and show ’em you’re not afraid.
    The Masher raised one eyebrow (a trick he’d spent hours practising in front of the mirror). ‘Family o’ yours, Fadge? You actually got family?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Jack.
    â€˜That’s all right, then,’ said the Masher. ‘We can talk. I got a job for you, young Fadge. I need a snakesman. Tonight.’
    Fadge wriggled uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know about tonight, Masher. Tomorrow, maybe.’
    â€˜Tonight.’
    â€˜I don’t know.’ Go off with the Masherand leave his prize goose sitting here before it had had a chance to lay its golden egg? On the other hand, the Masher wasn’t in the habit of taking ‘no’ for an answer. ‘You said yourself, Masher, I’m getting over-large for a snakesman.’
    â€˜You’ll do for this. I measured the jump already.’
    â€˜I gotta look after Jack.’
    â€˜I’ll come with you,’ said Jack. He didn’t know what a snakesman was, or where Fadge was supposed to jump. What he did know was that sticking with Fadge had to be better than being left on his own in a strange town. A strange time, even.
    Fadge beamed at him, gratefully.
    The Masher nodded. ‘You can come if you want. I can use a fourth man. Specially one that ain’t known.’
    Fadge said, ‘All right, then, Masher. You talked me into it.’

5
Snakesman at Work
    Outside, the fog seemed to have cleared completely. It happened like that sometimes. But look into any dark corner, up any alleyway and you’d see it curled there, lurking, biding its time, ready to pounce.
    It would have to move fast to catch the Masher, striding out on his long legs, while the rest of them jogged along behind. Down the street they went and round a corner. Across the next street, and down an