Waiting Game Read Free

played before, little Janet took it upon herself to advise him.
    “The thing is to do it quickly,” she informed him, quite as if she were an expert. “If you hesitate, even for a moment, the fire will burn your fingers.”
    In spite of the debacle of four years earlier, Mary’s Arthur snatched a raisin from the flames without mishap, to a smattering of applause as well as a few complaints that there was to be no repeat of the dramatics that had so enlivened the proceedings four years earlier. Fanny, the expectant mother, proved to be too indecisive, reaching a tentative hand toward the bowl only to draw it back when her fingers grew too warm. After three repeats of this process, her siblings jeeringly informed her that she had wasted enough time, and must now yield her turn to someone else. Young Patrick went next, grabbing a raisin from the bowl and popping it into his mouth in a single swift movement before promising his ill-used younger sister that on his next turn he would surrender his trophy to her. At last it was Pickett’s turn, and although he had never played the game before, it soon transpired that his years of picking pockets gave him a distinct advantage. To his surprise, he quickly established himself as the most skilled of the group—a position which resulted in his becoming a great favourite of the children when they discovered that he could snatch not only one raisin, but two in the same turn, one of which he bestowed on whomever of the youngsters happened to be closest at hand. This led, not unnaturally, to a silent competition which had ended with one small boy (he rather thought it was Isabella’s youngest) taking up a position of strength on Pickett’s lap.
    “I’ve always said Mary’s son Patrick was the best, but you put him quite to shame,” exclaimed Fanny, as Pickett bestowed yet another prize on the child in his lap. “ How , pray, do you do that?”
    “Best not say, perhaps,” Pickett said apologetically, casting a sheepish glance at his mentor.
    Eventually the brandy burned down, the last raisin disappeared, and the family returned to the drawing room. But even this simple procedure proved cause for merriment when Isabella caught Pickett beneath the kissing ball and planted a smack on his cheek, to the hilarity of all witnesses and his own blushing embarrassment. Once everyone had assembled in the drawing room, Mr. Colquhoun presented each of his grandchildren with a silver shilling. This appeared to be an annual event, as most of the children had already formed decided opinions as to what to do with their new wealth. Pickett, observing the proceedings with a reminiscent smile, was reminded of his days as a collier’s apprentice and Mr. Colquhoun’s habit of giving him a penny whenever he delivered coal to the magistrate’s court at Bow Street. Delighted as they were with their grandfather’s gift, Pickett suspected these privileged children could not begin to imagine the depth of gratitude he’d felt to be given a coin of only a fraction of its value.
    While Mr. Colquhoun took care of the children, his wife gave each of her sons-in-law a pair of knitted wool gloves. Great was Pickett’s consternation when she presented the last pair to him.
    “I haven’t—I didn’t bring anything,” he confessed to his hostess.
    “And how could you, when you didn’t know until yesterday that you would be joining us?” she responded, pressing the gift upon him.
    Realizing that further protests would be impolite (and acknowledging his own need, given the hole in the thumb of his own gloves), Pickett allowed himself to be persuaded to accept. Unfortunately, the exchange had attracted the notice of several of the others.
    “But Grannie, those gloves belong to—”
    Whatever the lad would have said was stifled as his fond mother clapped a hand over his mouth.
    “Yes, little Adam is quite right,” Mrs. Colquhoun told Pickett. “This pair was meant for his Uncle James. But I may make my