“Tha’s th’ ‘ard way,” Bazie told Skif, who watched with wide eyes. “Raf, ’e’s th’ best I ivir showed. ’E’s got th’ touch, fer certain-sure.”

Now Raf sidled up to the other side of the mannequin, still casual and calm; he pretended to point at something, and while the target’s attention was presumably distracted for a moment, out came a knife no bigger than a finger, and between one breath and the next, the strings of both belt pouches had been slit and knife and pouches were in Raf’s pocket.

And all without jingling a single bell.

Now it was Lyle’s turn, and he extracted the remaining handkerchief without difficulty, although he was not as smooth as Raf. “I’m not near that good,” Deek said, “So I’m got t’ do th’ shake’n’snatch. Tha’ takes two.”

He got up, and he and Lyle advanced on the mannequin together. Then Lyle pretended to stumble and fell against it, setting all the bells jingling; as it fell into him, Deek grabbed for it. “’Ey there, lad!” he exclaimed. “Steady on! An’ you—watch where yer goin’, you! Mussin’ up a gennelmun like that!”

Skif would have expected Deek to pretend to brush the mannequin off, and get hold of his goods that way, but Deek did nothing of the sort. He simply set it straight. They both moved off, but now the mannequin no longer had the kerchief around its neck, and Deek held up both the kerchief and the pouch that had been tucked inside its tunic triumphantly.

“Tha’s th’ easy road, but riskier,” Bazie noted. “Chance is, if mun figgers ‘e’s been lifted, ’e’ll send beaks lookin’ fer th’ shaker—tha’s Lyle.”

“An’ I’m be clean,” Lyle pointed out. “Ain’t nothin’ on me, an’ beak’ll let me go.”

“But if ‘e knows th’ liftin’ lay, it’ll be Deek ’e’ll set beak on, an’ Deek ain’t clean. Or mun might even be sharp ‘nuff t’ figger ’twas both on ‘em,” Bazie cautioned. “Ye run th’ shake’n’snatch, ye pick yer cony careful. Gotta be one as is wuth it, got ’nuf glim t’ take th’ risk, but one as ain’t too smart, ye ken? An’ do’t when’s a mort uv crowd, but not so’s ye cain’t get slip-put away.”

Skif nodded solemnly.

“Na, ’tis yer turn. Jest wipes, fer now.”

Skif then spent a humbling evening, trying to extract handkerchiefs from the mannequin’s pocket without setting off the bells. Try as he might, with sweat matting his hair from the strain, he could not manage to set off less than two. And here he’d thought that he’d been working hard, hauling water and doing laundry, or going over walls and roofs with Deek! That had been a joke compared with this!

At length, Bazie took pity on him. “That’ll be ‘nuff, lad,” he said, as Skif sagged with mingled weariness and defeat. “Ye done not bad, fer th’ fust time. Ye’ll get better, ye ken. Put yon dummy i’t’ corner, an’ leave ’im fer now. Time fer a bit uv supper.”