jostled off his crate. He pushed his way through the crowd, struggling to keep his hat on his head. As he passed Jim he looked at him, just for a second, and what Jim saw in his eyes wasn’t anger, or reproach, but sadness.
Jim turned away. Betsy was wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Go on!’ she laughed. ‘Back to your Rosie, you vagabond! There’s not much you don’t know!’
Jim raced off through the alleyways to find Rosie. He was followed by some of the boys from the crowd. ‘Hey, Skipping Jim!’ they shouted. ‘Wait for us!’
But Jim didn’t stop until he had found Rosie again. The boys panted up to him, cuffing him lightly with their fists to show they wanted to be friends.
‘Come on, Skipping Jim. Dance for us!’ they shouted, and they stood about in their tattered clothes, hugging themselves against the cold, while Jim capered round to make them laugh.
‘You’ll soon wear those boots out,’ Rosie warned him. ‘Save your dancing for the proper customers.’
But Jim wanted to dance for the boys. They didn’t often laugh. There wasn’t much for them to laugh at. He was always too shy to talk to them. But after that day when he had made them laugh at the doctor they often came to watch him dance in the streets.
One of them was a red-haired, pokey sort of boy. He reminded Jim of Tip, just a bit. His hair was bright and untidy and it poked out of the holes of the cap he wore on the side of his head. His toes wriggled like cold pink shrimps out of the ends of his boots and his shirt hung off his skinny arms like tattered sails hanging off the spars of a ship. He made a sort of living selling bootlaces.
‘Bootlaces, mister!’ he shouted at passers-by, whirling the laces above his head as if he was a ribbon-seller at a fair. ‘Three for the price of two! You don’t want three, sir? Well, two for the price of three then, can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
When Jim was skipping, the boy used to sit with his mouth wide open as if he was afraid to laugh out loud. His eyes darted round, furtive, on the look-out all the time for likely customers, or for the police, or for something to help himself to. He would suddenly leap up and dash past a stall when the owner wasn’t looking, and grab a lump of cheese or the broken end of a pie, or a hot muffin. He’d run into a dark corner and stuff his cheeks full with it. Jim reckoned he must swallow it whole, it disappeared so fast.
If the stall-holders saw him doing it they usually swore loudly at him or chased him, but sometimes they saw him coming and looked the other way. It never occurred to Jim, watching him, that one day he would be doing this too, and be thankful to steal enough crumbs in a day to keep himself alive.
Jim liked the look of this boy. A few times he went over to him to say something, but the boy would just run off as soon as Jim came near, as if he’d just remembered a job that needed doing. Jim would feel awkward then, and would pretend to be searching for something on the ground where the boy had been squatting. But every day he thought, ‘I’ll talk to him today. I’ll find out what he’s called, that’s what.’
One evening, just as dark was coming, the lad was sitting watching Jim in his nervous, fox-like way when a raggedy woman crept up behind him. She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him.
‘Gotcha!’ she said. ‘You bin hiding, aincha?’
He jumped up, trying to get away, but she pushed him to the ground and pinned him there with herknee on his chest. Her hair was as wild and red as his, and her voice thick and slurred.
‘Where’s yer money?’ she demanded.
‘Ain’t got none,’ the boy said.
She flipped him over as if he was a wooden doll, felt in his back pockets and held up some coins. ‘Now you’ve got none,’ she laughed, and before he could sit up she’d gone.
Jim had been crouching on the other side of the road, watching. The boy saw him looking and turned away, covering up his face
Jim turned away. Betsy was wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Go on!’ she laughed. ‘Back to your Rosie, you vagabond! There’s not much you don’t know!’
Jim raced off through the alleyways to find Rosie. He was followed by some of the boys from the crowd. ‘Hey, Skipping Jim!’ they shouted. ‘Wait for us!’
But Jim didn’t stop until he had found Rosie again. The boys panted up to him, cuffing him lightly with their fists to show they wanted to be friends.
‘Come on, Skipping Jim. Dance for us!’ they shouted, and they stood about in their tattered clothes, hugging themselves against the cold, while Jim capered round to make them laugh.
‘You’ll soon wear those boots out,’ Rosie warned him. ‘Save your dancing for the proper customers.’
But Jim wanted to dance for the boys. They didn’t often laugh. There wasn’t much for them to laugh at. He was always too shy to talk to them. But after that day when he had made them laugh at the doctor they often came to watch him dance in the streets.
One of them was a red-haired, pokey sort of boy. He reminded Jim of Tip, just a bit. His hair was bright and untidy and it poked out of the holes of the cap he wore on the side of his head. His toes wriggled like cold pink shrimps out of the ends of his boots and his shirt hung off his skinny arms like tattered sails hanging off the spars of a ship. He made a sort of living selling bootlaces.
‘Bootlaces, mister!’ he shouted at passers-by, whirling the laces above his head as if he was a ribbon-seller at a fair. ‘Three for the price of two! You don’t want three, sir? Well, two for the price of three then, can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
When Jim was skipping, the boy used to sit with his mouth wide open as if he was afraid to laugh out loud. His eyes darted round, furtive, on the look-out all the time for likely customers, or for the police, or for something to help himself to. He would suddenly leap up and dash past a stall when the owner wasn’t looking, and grab a lump of cheese or the broken end of a pie, or a hot muffin. He’d run into a dark corner and stuff his cheeks full with it. Jim reckoned he must swallow it whole, it disappeared so fast.
If the stall-holders saw him doing it they usually swore loudly at him or chased him, but sometimes they saw him coming and looked the other way. It never occurred to Jim, watching him, that one day he would be doing this too, and be thankful to steal enough crumbs in a day to keep himself alive.
Jim liked the look of this boy. A few times he went over to him to say something, but the boy would just run off as soon as Jim came near, as if he’d just remembered a job that needed doing. Jim would feel awkward then, and would pretend to be searching for something on the ground where the boy had been squatting. But every day he thought, ‘I’ll talk to him today. I’ll find out what he’s called, that’s what.’
One evening, just as dark was coming, the lad was sitting watching Jim in his nervous, fox-like way when a raggedy woman crept up behind him. She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him.
‘Gotcha!’ she said. ‘You bin hiding, aincha?’
He jumped up, trying to get away, but she pushed him to the ground and pinned him there with herknee on his chest. Her hair was as wild and red as his, and her voice thick and slurred.
‘Where’s yer money?’ she demanded.
‘Ain’t got none,’ the boy said.
She flipped him over as if he was a wooden doll, felt in his back pockets and held up some coins. ‘Now you’ve got none,’ she laughed, and before he could sit up she’d gone.
Jim had been crouching on the other side of the road, watching. The boy saw him looking and turned away, covering up his face
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