English passengers by Matthew Kneale

round the body of a ship holds a mighty store of bales of tobacco and flasks of brandy. Not to mention those certain pieces of French painted glass that I had taken at the same time. A pleasure it was to look down upon it all, stretching into the dark, all tidy and valuable, with that rich smell of wood and leaf and spirit to sweeten your nostrils.
    I only needed enough to show, of course: a few ounces of tobacco in a tin, a small flask of brandy, and one of the bits of painted glass, which were small enough. I slipped these into my coat pocket, then restored the
Sincerity
to decency, and made my way back up to the deck where Parish was still talking with Kinvig, seeming none too interested in what I was up to. I gave a nod to chief mate Brew to follow, Brew being a clever fellow, for all his pale dozy eyes looking slow as cheese. All those Brews were proper brains, and certain ones said they were too sharp altogether, and that you should
never trust a Brew at the fair
. Not that I was one to take notice of the likes of them, for sure. The other one I took along was China Clucas, who was always handy to have about, being the ship’s giant, and strong as seven oxen.
    Luck we were needing and luck we were getting. The three of us strolled across to the gate, gentle as babes, flapping our arms to show weweren’t carrying anything, and were waved through by the guards with hardly a glance. All at once we were in that London which I’d hardly put a sight on till now. Not that I was one to be scared by a bit of dirt and noise. I decided we should walk, just in case the cabs were spying for the customs, and we set off at a jaunty step.
    ‘‘Want someone to show you the way, mister?’’ This came from a lad, if you could call him that, as he was more a ball of grubby rags with little hungry eyes peeping out. ‘‘I’ll show you the way for a penny.’’
    How he guessed we were strangers I couldn’t have said, as we’d been making our faces miserable and ordinary as any Londoners’. The thought came to me, though, that he might be handy enough. ‘‘A penny, eh? Very well then. It’s the Waterman’s Arms we’re seeking.’’
    ‘‘I know it,’’ he fairly sang. ‘‘Just follow me.’’
    ‘‘I hope he’s not working for the customs,’’ murmured Brew.
    I had to laugh at that, as it wasn’t often Brew came up with such a bit of raw foolishness. ‘‘Aw, man,’’ I told him, ‘‘next you’ll be seeing customs spies in the fishes themselves.’’
    It was all we could do to keep up with our guide as he led us from one stinking street to another, and we walked further, and further again, till I began to wonder if he really knew the way or if he’d just told us so to try and earn his penny. Finally he took us along a narrow alley and into a dirty little court overlooked by wild, leaning houses, and here he just stopped. By now my patience was running thin.
    ‘‘You’re lost, aren’t you?’’ I told him. ‘‘We’ve not all day to waste, you know.’’
    Rather than just answer, like you’d expect, he did a curious thing, giving out a loud shout. ‘‘Daa! Maa!’’
    In a moment a little crazed body of an old man stepped out from one of the houses, leaning himself on a long grey stick, all mad hair and eyes that didn’t look at you but stared somewhere off to the side. He looked too ancient to be anyone’s father. I was thinking he’d help us find the Waterman’s Arms, but then all at once the lad turned at me and spat out a cry. ‘‘Oi! Where’s my two guineas?’’
    I suppose it should’ve been funny, but it wasn’t quite. The only one to laugh was China Clucas, who always was the slow one. Next thing hewas stooping down to be on a level with the creature. ‘‘Aw, man, you know it was just a penny you’re getting.’’
    I could see the lad drawing in a power of breath. Next thing he was all noise, yelling out, ‘‘Thieves,’’ just as if he was one big whistle. Suddenly there