George stood so abruptly, he toppled his chair. It crashed against Bagger’s bunk, startling Charlie, who pressed closer to the dugout wall.

Thomas remained in his seat, sneaking Max pieces of meat under the table. He’d seen enough arguments between miners back home to know they rarely ended in a throw-down fight. Tensions always ran high underground.

George walked around the table. “You think you can teach me to survive?” He stopped before colliding with Frederick, who took a step back. “When you were four years old, learning your letters and numbers and which silver fork goes with which food, I was learning to scale chimneys.”

“You’re a liar,” Frederick said. “The government outlawed climbing boys years ago.”

“You think the man who snatched me off the streets or his customers looking for a cheap chimney cleaning cared about any law?”

Frederick didn’t answer.

“By the time I was five, I was sweeping chimneys just like the ones in whatever manor your kin calls home.”

Frederick’s face flushed a purplish red. “You know nothing about my family or my home.”

George poked him in the chest. “That’s where you’re wrong. See, all those chimneys I climbed for all those years were in the homes of spoiled rich boys just like you.”

Frederick didn’t answer. He seemed intent on refusing to acknowledge anything the London street rat said about him or his upbringing, no matter how close to the mark it hit.

George shook his head with feigned pity. “It must have been so difficult living under such horrific circumstances. Tell us, Eton, how did you survive?”

Frederick crossed his arms over his chest so George couldn’t poke him again. His lips pinched tight with muted outrage.

“My master liked to light fires beneath me to keep me climbing. Nothing like the fear of falling to a fiery death to keep a five-year-old moving, though the smoke did make it difficult to breathe during the climb.” George took a long drag of his shrinking cigarette and blew the smoke in Frederick’s face.

Frederick didn’t blink or wave it away, but his eyes watered and he began to cough and sputter.

“That’s what I thought,” George said, taking another drag. “While you and your Eton chums were playing soldier, boys like Mouse, Tommy, and me were fighting to survive another day.” Without taking his eyes from Frederick, he questioned Thomas. “Tommy, what time did you get up in the morning to walk to work in the coal mines?”

“Three,” Thomas answered.

“And how many hours were you in the mines?”

“Twelve.”

“Mouse,” George called out. “The peeling skin on your hands, that’s from the lime powder used to bleach the fabrics at the textile factory, right?”

Charlie pulled his sleeves down over his hands.

“And the scars lining your back,” George continued, “those were from punishment for being late or making a mistake.”

Charlie’s face and ears burned bright red. He looked back to the wall and his notebook to hide his shame.