Part 3
The street thief in question was currently running for his short life. The police were after him. He ducked between two buildings and scurried up the ladder. He was cursing the luck that made him run into hat-man. He spotted a chimney that thankfully didn't appear to be lit and scrambled into it, covering himself with soot in the process.
He remained still, listening to the police shout and fuss like ladies who's laundry had been dirtied and then they left. He popped his head out and looked about. He was clear, though quite dirty. He got out of the chimney and dusted himself off.
Then he was off like a shot, again. He ran to the other side of the roof, then went down the ladder, and slipped off by the back alleys, places only street scum like himself or criminals dared to venture.
Quietly and swiftly, he made it to a shabby, sagging door and rapped on it sharply. The door opened, an old woman greeted him.
"There y'are Quatre. Been causing trouble I 'ere. Come in, come in. Lord, you're dirty child."
"P'lice after me," Quatre explained, panting a bit from his running. The old woman let him slip past her. She looked out both ways, then shut the door. Inside, there was a small kitchen, a small sitting room and two bedrooms. The entire flat was rather small, shabby and old, though remarkably clean.
"Wash'erself, boy," she said bossily, though there was a smile on her face. Quatre bowed to her as if she was the Queen of England and went to obey. He poured water into a tub and stripped, scrubbing himself of all soot and dirt. When he finished, he put on a pair of trousers more ragged than the last, and took the tub of water and the clothes to the woman, who used the wash water to clean his clothes.
Quatre kissed her cheek and handed her a small purse. " 'ave a good day?" He sat down at the table comfortably.
She examined the purse. "Och, you know you dinna need ta be stealin', my wages are enough to s'pport us both."
"T'wouldn't be proppah," Quatre argued. The old woman snorted.
"Proppah indeed, stealin'! Yah muttha and fattha wouldn'a be 'appy with me if I be lettin' ya steal." She placed a bowl of piping hot potato soup in front of Quatre, who immediately began to eat.
"If me muttha and fattha dinna want me ta steal, they shouldn'a ha' gotten themselves kilt," Quatre murmured into his thin potato soup. The woman looked at him reproachfully.
"They dinna do it a-purpose, Quatre. 'Tis a hard life, for most folk. Ye should know tha'."
"Yes, Aunt Mattie," Quatre replied dutifully and resumed drinking his soup. She rolled her eyes and kissed him on the cheek.
"Do ye work t'night?" she asked instead.
"Yes. I' fact, I ought t' leave afore I lose custom!" he said, drinking the rest of the soup quickly. Aunt Mattie sighed as he scampered out the door onto the street.
Quatre wove his way to the best part of town for his particular line of work, where all the rich men walked. This job was more legitimate than stealing, but it wasn't much fun. Rich men asked him to do certain things in exchange for money.
A man walked over to him and nodded to him. Quatre roused and walked up to him.
"C'n I 'elp ya, Guv'nah?" he asked politely. The man handed him a package.
"Might you find twenty seven Axworthy street?" he asked, accent polite and cultured.
"Cert'. 'alf crown, please Guv'nah." The man handed him the money and he was off like a shot. S'pect it'll be a busy evenin', Quatre thought to himself. Such is the life of a delivery boy.
TBC...