Thomas leaned over the table, so no one, especially the nosy ginger, would hear him beg. “Please, sir, I know I’m small for my age, but I’m a hard worker. Just give me a chance. I won’t let you down, sir. I promise.”

The officer capped his fountain pen and laced his fingers. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you just don’t measure up to the standards the British Army demands of its soldiers. You’d do well to hurry back home, son. I have no doubt your mother is worried.”

Fear and desperation squeezed Thomas’s throat, cracking his voice, but he no longer cared who heard. “Please, sir. I have to get to the Western Front. It’s a matter of life and death.”

The officer sat back and picked up his pen. “Yes, it is.” And then he pointed left.

THREE

THE MAN ON Dorset Street had promised George two shillings if he brought him recruits with mining experience. When George spotted the boy in line at Trafalgar Square—Timothy, he’d heard him say—he knew he’d found a mark. Coal dust clung to the boy like a second skin and tinted his blond hair a dingy gray.

George would have bet on his mother’s life that the small lad was no older than thirteen—that is, he would have if he had a mother whose life he could bet on … or a father, for that matter. But George only had his life, and according to every adult he’d ever met, it held no value worth wagering.

He’d detected in the boy’s speech a Kentish accent, but beneath it, there were remnants of an Irish brogue. Either way, the lad was far from home, a fact George would use to his advantage.

As the hours had dragged on, George had considered approaching the young recruit in line, but he knew the boy would never leave if he still held hope the army would accept him, so George decided to wait until the boy was rejected, desperate, and vulnerable.

Watching his mark pace around the square, his head bowed and chin trembling, George almost felt sorry for the lad, but hunger and the damp cold of March kept any tug of pity from swaying him. Two shillings would buy him a hot meal, his first in nine days, so when the dispersing crowd swept the young miner onto the city streets, George followed. As he dodged between carts and motorcars, stalking the boy, his belly warmed with the thought of Mrs. Wellington’s mutton broth, potato pie, and duff, that steaming, fragrant pudding with its soft bits of plums and apples, but then a brisk evening breeze cut through George’s threadbare coat, and he reconsidered his plan. A hot meal would keep him warm only as long as it took to eat, but a good night’s sleep, indoors, under the covers of an actual bed …

George sighed at the thought, deciding instead to rent a room in Mrs. Mahoney’s boardinghouse for the night. But first, he had to earn the shillings.