“‘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.

“Damn good play actin’,” Bazie retorted. “Dunno ‘ow long ye kin work it, but whilst ye kin, serve ye better nor runnin’ from beaks.” He set his mending aside and rubbed his hands together. “’Sall right, me boys. ‘Oo wants t’fetch dinner?”

“Me,” Raf said. “Don’ wanta stir washin’, an’ don’ wanta sort goods.”

The other two seemed amenable to that arrangement, so Raf got a couple of coins from Bazie and took himself off. The napkins in the cauldron were finally white enough to suit Bazie, so Skif got the job of pulling the white things out and rinsing them in a bucket of fresh water, while Lyle hung them up and Deek sorted through the things that Lyle and Raf had brought back.

Presently he looked up. “Six spoons, two knifes, packet uv needles, three uv pins, empty needlecase, four spinnin’ bobs,” he said. “Reckon thas ’nuf wi’ wot we alriddy got?”

Bazie nodded. “Arter supper ye go out t’ Clave. Ye kin take napkins t’ Dooly at same time. An’ half th’ wipes. Lyle, ye’ll take t’ rest uv th’ goods t’ Jarmin.”

“Kin do,” Lyle replied genially, taking the last of the napkins from Skif. “Young’un, git that pile an’ dunk in wash, eh?”

He pointed to a pile of dingy shirts and smallclothes in the corner with his chin. “Thas ourn,” he added by way of explanation. “Ye kin let fire die a bit, so’s its cool ’nuf fer the silks when ourn’s done.”

Skif had wondered—the stuff didn’t seem to be of the same quality as the goods that the boys brought back to Bazie. Obediently, he picked up the pile of laundry and plunged it into the wash cauldron and began stirring.

“Ye moght be a wonderin’ why we does all this washin’ an wimmin stuff,” Bazie said conversationally. “I tell ye. Fust, I tell m’boys allus t’ nobble outa the dirty stuff—’cause thas inna pile, an nobody ain’t counted it yet. See?”