Finally, finally, it dawned on him, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Hoy!” he said. “Cain’t give no beak no ways t’ find ’im!”

A “beak,” Skif knew, was one of the city watchmen who patrolled for thieves and robbers, took care of drunks and simple assault and other minor crimes. Anything major went to the Guard, and anything truly big went to one of the four City Heralds—not that Skif had ever seen one of these exalted personages. He’d never seen a Guard either, except at a distance. The Guards didn’t bother with the neighborhoods like this one, not unless murder and mayhem had occurred.

Bazie nodded genially. “Thas’ right. Ain’t no better boy fer learnin’ th’ liftin’ lay,” he said with pride. “Even’f sommut sees him, ’ow they gonna tell beak wot ’e looks like if’n ’e don’ look like nothin’?”

Now it was Skif’s turn to shake his head, this time in admiration. What incredible luck to have been born so completely nondescript! Raf could pick pockets for the rest of his life on looks like his—he wouldn’t even have to be particularly good at it so long as he took care that there was nothing that was ever particularly distinctive about him. How could a watchman ever pick him out of a crowd when the description his victim gave would match a hundred, a thousand other boys in the crowd?

“’E’s got ’nother liddle trick, too,” Bazie continued. “’Ere, Lyle—nobble ’im.”

Not at all loath, Lyle puffed himself up and seized Raf’s arm. “’Ere, you!” he boomed—or tried to, his voice was evidently breaking, and the words came out in a kind of cracked squeak. He tried again. “’Ere, you! You bin liftin’?”

Now Raf became distinctive. Somehow the eyes grew larger, innocent, and tearful; the lower lip quivered, and the entire face took on a kind of guileless stupidity mingled with frightened innocence. It was amazing. If Skif had caught Raf with his hand in Skif’s pocket, he’d have believed it was all an accident.

“Whossir? Messir?” Raf quavered. “Nossir. I’m be gettin’ packet’o pins fer me mum, sir…” And he held out a paper stuck full of pins for Lyle’s inspection, tears filling his eyes in a most pathetic fashion.

Bazie and Deek howled with laughter, as Lyle dropped Raf’s arm and growled. “Gerron wi’ ye.”

As soon as the arm was dropped, Raf pretended to scuttle away with his head down and shoulders hunched, only to straighten up a few moments later and assume his bland guise again. He shrugged as Skif stared at him.

“Play actin’,” he said dismissively.