Pickpocket's Apprentice Read Free Page A

clients,” Mr. Colquhoun said, although Pickett suspected the conversation had not followed along those exact lines. Still, the coal merchant made no attempt to set the record straight.
    “I could use an apprentice, one who’s not afraid to work,” Mr. Granger concurred. “If you would care to contract yourself to me, I can offer you room and board in exchange for twelve hours of work a day, six days a week. On Sunday mornings, you will attend church with my family; the rest of the day is yours to do as you please, so long as you are not engaged in illegal or immoral pursuits. You will eat dinner once a week with the family—let us say, every Saturday night—and take the rest of your meals downstairs with the servants. I will provide you with one set of working clothes, along with a bedroom downstairs. This arrangement, if it is agreeable to you, will remain in effect until you attain your majority.”
    “Huh?” Pickett asked intelligently.
    “Until you are twenty-one,” Mr. Colquhoun explained. “In your case, seven years.”
    “If you want to break the indenture before that time, you may buy out the contract,” Mr. Granger added. “The price, of course, would depend on how much time was left in the agreement. Still, I don’t see any reason why you should wish to do so. I can assure you that I’ll give you no cause for complaint. So long as you do the job you’ve been engaged to do, you’ll be well-fed and well-treated.”
    Twelve hours a day, six days a week, for the next seven years. There would be no time for loitering about Covent Garden, that much was certain. He shouldn’t have any problem keeping his promise to the magistrate; he doubted if he would have the time or the energy to steal, even if the opportunity presented itself. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have the daily burden of finding food to eat or a relatively safe place to sleep for the night. In the meantime, both men were expectantly awaiting his answer. He took a deep breath.
    “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
    * * *
    Mr. Colquhoun departed the Granger residence quite alone a short time later, having shaken his young protégé warmly by the hand, reminded him of his promise to stay out of trouble, and bade both the boy and his new master farewell. As he trudged back up Cecil Street, he noted with some surprise that the walk seemed somehow lonely without young John Pickett’s company, and hoped he had done the right thing. Yes, he was sure of it. The work might be dirty and grueling, but at least the lad would be provided for. Still, the sense of loneliness persisted, making the magistrate impatient for the comforts of hearth and home. Before he could seek these, however, he had unfinished business to settle. He retraced his steps to Bow Street, and found it choked with carriages conveying the aristocracy to the theatres at Covent Garden and Drury Lane. At the moment, however, Mr. Colquhoun had no interest in the dramatic arts. He entered the Bow Street Public Office and summoned William Foote, who seemed not at all surprised to see him.
    “I’m thinking it concerns that thieving little scrub,” surmised Foote, quite correctly. “I expect you’ll be wanting me to testify at his trial.”
    “Then I’m afraid your expectations are doomed to disappointment,” Mr. Colquhoun informed him. “Young Mr. Pickett will not be standing trial, at least not this time. I didn’t want to say anything to you within his hearing because I have no desire to undermine your authority, but neither will I allow you to abuse that authority. The next time you lay violent hands on a suspect, Mr. Foote, your life had better be in imminent danger, or you will be dismissed without a character. Do I make myself clear?”
    “But—resisting arrest, sir!” sputtered Foote, the picture of wounded innocence. “Surely you wouldn’t want me to let him escape!”
    “No, but if you can’t subdue an undernourished fourteen-year-old without beating