Wink and Olly doff their hats and begin circulating, catching coins that fall from the first- and second-class decks, and even a few from the third-class passengers, bless them.

A voice grinds from behind me: “Hold you hard!”

It’s the QM from the docking bridge, with a stare loud enough to drown out the applause. Another crewman, with the mien of an angry sturgeon, approaches from behind him, his navy coat seeming to swallow his neck. He folds his arms, which are so muscled, he can’t get them all the way crossed. A set of heavy keys clipped to his belt catches the sunlight. It’s the master-at-arms—or in his case, the Master-of-Big-Arms—here to haul me to the crowbar hotel.

13

Brackets appear around the QM’s mouth. “Performances are not allowed, see?” He speaks in the North East accent, which sounds like the tongue is pushing the words up a hill.

I gulp. “Pardon me, Quartermaster. I wasn’t aware.” I wipe juice off my chin with my sleeve and furtively look around for Wink and Olly. They are still collecting coins. We can’t go yet. Every penny counts.

The QM stands in his favorite triangular stance, knees locked inside his navy serge trousers, fists on hips with elbows stretching the fabric of his jersey. Even his chin is pointy. “Move along, or I’ll have him do it for you.” He ticks his head toward the Master-of-Big-Arms.

“Right away.” Caught between their glares, it occurs to me that they haven’t mentioned the lads collecting money. I try to catch Wink’s and Olly’s eyes, but a group of children have started up a game of beanbag toss, blocking my view.

“Seems to me,” I continue before the men turn around, “entertainment will help the passengers pass the time. The band can only play so long, and it’s nice to have variety. And if no one’s complaining, where’s the harm?” I attempt a teensy smile, but it crumbles under the weight of the QM’s scowl.

“The harm’s that you could be runnin’ a dodgy scam, is how. So unless you want to take it up with the captain, work your legs, ’cause you’re gettin’ on my wick.”

The Master-of-Big-Arms grunts his assent.

Wink finally notices me. His quick eyes assess the men corralling me, and I glance meaningfully at the stairs. Make yourself scarce, boys! Smartly, before anyone makes us give the money back.

Wink bows to the man who just dropped a coin into his cap. He signals to Olly, then both head for the stairwell, with Wink trying not to clomp in his too-big boots.

“Don’t mean no trouble, sirs. I thank you for your indulgence. I’ll just be on my way, then.”