Printer's Devil (9780316167826) Read Free Page A

said. “Too big for your little boots, some might say, Maaster Mog. Oh, he’s terrible
     clever, that printer’s lad. Well he’d better pipe down because there’s plenty cleverer than he is, and if he don’t watch out
     —“
    I stopped listening to her and lowered my head to the glass, full to the brim with cool frothy ale the color of strong tea.
     I took a long sip, then licked my lips and opened my eyes wide as the sour aftertaste welled forward over my tongue. I’d sometimes
     heard men making unkind remarks about Tassie’s ale behind her back, but it always seemed all right to me; and anyone who ever
     tried to taste the water that came out of the pump in the square, straight from the murky depths of the Fleet, would soon
     agree that even the poorest ale was a better bet.

    Tassie was wiping her taps vigorously, and still mumbling on, as I put my empty glass back up on the counter.
    “Thank you, Tassie,” I said, and I must have looked suitably humble because she stopped moaning and produced a big parcel
     she’d made up. “Do you good, that will,” she said. “And I’ve put some bone in there, wrapped up separate, just for Lash. Now,
     that’s fourpence ha’penny, and don’t go getting murdered on your way back to Clamprock.” I said I wouldn’t, and picked up
     the tempting brown parcel full of fat slices of bread, good ham, and thick brown bottles of ale. I heard the chink of coins
     as she tipped my money into a sack under the bar. And Lash and I were out of the door.
    The houses veered into my path and fell back again, as I rounded the wobbly little corners on the way back to the shop. Someone
     gave a low laugh as I passed by a window, and I took hold of Lash’s collar nervously. The beer I’d drunk so quickly had made
     me feel a bit unsteady, and the lane looked narrower than usual. Flies buzzed up suddenly from a lump a dog had left on the
     cobbles, and I had to pull Lash hard to stop him going over to investigate it.
    I was taking Tassie’s advice seriously. Carrying a parcel of food through streets like these could have made me a target for
     any hungry villain who might belurking on my route, and there were some who’d think nothing of murdering a child of twelve in return for a decent meal.
     It was reassuring to have Lash with me but, deep down, I knew there were desperate characters around who wouldn’t have found
     Lash much of an obstacle to getting what they wanted. I ran the rest of the way to the shop and, with Lash scampering alongside,
     I could treat it like a game; but I was thankful when we reached the little door crouching in the shadow of the big old priory
     gate.
    Cramplock was still there, busily working the squeaky press on which he was doing the theatre bills. He looked up as he heard
     me opening the door. “Ah, Mog,” he said, letting go of the lever and coming towards me rubbing his cheek, “bringer of good
     things!” I handed him the parcel, which he placed on the table on top of my Cockburn poster. “Ham!” he said, unwrapping the
     brown paper, “and lots of bread!” He chuckled to himself, wedging some of the ham between two slices of bread. Lash’s muzzle
     snuffled expectantly up over the edge of the table and Cramplock indulgently slipped him a small slice of ham. “Did you spot
     any murderers on your journey, eh?” He cackled, thinking he’d made a splendid joke. I didn’t laugh.
    “Mmm,” he said, chewing the bread and ham vigorously, “this handbill’s almost finished. But then …”he swallowed, “I have to go and see someone.” He swallowed some beer from the neck of his bottle, and blinked and coughed
     several times. “I’d like you to run a quick errand for me,” he said, and took another large bite of bread and ham. “I’ve got
     a bill for Mister Flethick at Corporation Row,” he mumbled; only it was so muffled by his mouthful of food it came out as
     “Mff ffrff bngg, mff-tff Flfff-Corff-ffrmmmm.”
    “What?”