outside.”
Wiggins blinked up at her. “You sure it ain’t another owl?” he mumbled sleepily.
“I ain’t never seen a owl carryin’ a bull’s-eye lantern,” she said.
Wiggins was awake in a flash. He looked through the window. Gertie was right, there was someone out there – and he or she was making their way towards the caravan. The door creaked open and the dark figure of a man appeared in the doorway. The beam from his bull’s-eye lantern swung around the inside of the caravan, and lit up Wiggins and Gertie. The man let out a yell, stepped back – and fell down the steps. Wiggins leapt up and charged through the door after him. The man was lying flat where he had fallen. His lantern lay on the ground beside him, its beam pointing up into the sky. Wiggins threw himself on top of him, pinning him down, while Gertie sat on his legs.
To their surprise, the man showed no signs of fighting them off. Instead, he raised his arms protectively in front of his face.
“Don’t hurt me,” he whimpered pitifully. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“What d’you want?” Wiggins demanded, trying to sound fierce and strong.
“I don’t mean no harm. I only want what’s mine.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Sneyd. Sam Sneyd.”
“Ha!” Gertie cried. “You’re Slippery Sam!”
The man turned pink. “I believe some people do call me that,” he said huffily.
“Hmm,” said Wiggins. “You might as well get up.”
He climbed off the man’s chest and nodded to Gertie to free his legs. Sneyd sat up, checking himself to make sure nothing was broken or damaged, then scrambled unsteadily to his feet. Gertie picked up his lantern and shone the light on him so they could see him properly. He was a short man, no taller than Wiggins, and just as wiry. He brushed himself down, then smoothed back his greasy black hair and ran a finger along his thin moustache.
“I s’pose you’ve come for your spyglasses, stopwatch and notebook,” Wiggins said in his best Sherlock Holmes manner.
“How d’you know…?” Sneyd began.
“They must be worth a lot of money,” Wiggins continued. “But not as much as you hoped to make betting on Silver Star.”
“Silver Star’s a dead cert,” said Sneyd. “But I need to be quite sure before I bet all I’ve got on him. If I do and he don’t win, I’ll have lost everything.”
“Well don’t bet, then,” said Gertie.
“I have to. It’s the only way. I got debts, see? I owe some bad people a lot of money.”
“What happens if you don’t pay ’em?” Wiggins asked.
“It could be very nasty,” replied Sneyd with a shiver. “They might even kill me.”
“Like somebody killed young Tommie, you mean?” said Wiggins sharply.
Sneyd paused for a moment. “I heard about that. Terrible.”
“What did you hear? What d’you know about it?”
Sneyd shook his head so hard, Wiggins thought it might fall off. Or at least break his neck.
“Nothing. I don’t know nothing about it. Honest.”
“What about my da?” Gertie asked. “D’you know who set him up?”
“No. No, I don’t. But I know he couldn’t have done it,” said Sneyd.
Wiggins and Gertie both leant forwards eagerly.
“How d’you know that?” Wiggins asked.
Sneyd ran his finger along his moustache again. “Because he was with me the night it happened.”
Wiggins turned to Gertie accusingly.
“I thought you said he was with you?” he cried.
Gertie looked sheepish. “Sure and he might have slipped out of the caravan while I was asleep,” she admitted.
“Without waking you?”
“He can move very quiet when he wants to,” she said.
“That’s true,” Sneyd agreed. “Quiet as a mouse. I’m sure he could walk on eggshells without breaking them.”
Wiggins thought for a moment, wondering what Mr Holmes would have said next. Eventually he turned back to Sneyd.
“So, Mr Sneyd. You say Patrick was with you that night?”
“Yes.”
“That’s very convenient for you, ain’t
Wiggins blinked up at her. “You sure it ain’t another owl?” he mumbled sleepily.
“I ain’t never seen a owl carryin’ a bull’s-eye lantern,” she said.
Wiggins was awake in a flash. He looked through the window. Gertie was right, there was someone out there – and he or she was making their way towards the caravan. The door creaked open and the dark figure of a man appeared in the doorway. The beam from his bull’s-eye lantern swung around the inside of the caravan, and lit up Wiggins and Gertie. The man let out a yell, stepped back – and fell down the steps. Wiggins leapt up and charged through the door after him. The man was lying flat where he had fallen. His lantern lay on the ground beside him, its beam pointing up into the sky. Wiggins threw himself on top of him, pinning him down, while Gertie sat on his legs.
To their surprise, the man showed no signs of fighting them off. Instead, he raised his arms protectively in front of his face.
“Don’t hurt me,” he whimpered pitifully. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“What d’you want?” Wiggins demanded, trying to sound fierce and strong.
“I don’t mean no harm. I only want what’s mine.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Sneyd. Sam Sneyd.”
“Ha!” Gertie cried. “You’re Slippery Sam!”
The man turned pink. “I believe some people do call me that,” he said huffily.
“Hmm,” said Wiggins. “You might as well get up.”
He climbed off the man’s chest and nodded to Gertie to free his legs. Sneyd sat up, checking himself to make sure nothing was broken or damaged, then scrambled unsteadily to his feet. Gertie picked up his lantern and shone the light on him so they could see him properly. He was a short man, no taller than Wiggins, and just as wiry. He brushed himself down, then smoothed back his greasy black hair and ran a finger along his thin moustache.
“I s’pose you’ve come for your spyglasses, stopwatch and notebook,” Wiggins said in his best Sherlock Holmes manner.
“How d’you know…?” Sneyd began.
“They must be worth a lot of money,” Wiggins continued. “But not as much as you hoped to make betting on Silver Star.”
“Silver Star’s a dead cert,” said Sneyd. “But I need to be quite sure before I bet all I’ve got on him. If I do and he don’t win, I’ll have lost everything.”
“Well don’t bet, then,” said Gertie.
“I have to. It’s the only way. I got debts, see? I owe some bad people a lot of money.”
“What happens if you don’t pay ’em?” Wiggins asked.
“It could be very nasty,” replied Sneyd with a shiver. “They might even kill me.”
“Like somebody killed young Tommie, you mean?” said Wiggins sharply.
Sneyd paused for a moment. “I heard about that. Terrible.”
“What did you hear? What d’you know about it?”
Sneyd shook his head so hard, Wiggins thought it might fall off. Or at least break his neck.
“Nothing. I don’t know nothing about it. Honest.”
“What about my da?” Gertie asked. “D’you know who set him up?”
“No. No, I don’t. But I know he couldn’t have done it,” said Sneyd.
Wiggins and Gertie both leant forwards eagerly.
“How d’you know that?” Wiggins asked.
Sneyd ran his finger along his moustache again. “Because he was with me the night it happened.”
Wiggins turned to Gertie accusingly.
“I thought you said he was with you?” he cried.
Gertie looked sheepish. “Sure and he might have slipped out of the caravan while I was asleep,” she admitted.
“Without waking you?”
“He can move very quiet when he wants to,” she said.
“That’s true,” Sneyd agreed. “Quiet as a mouse. I’m sure he could walk on eggshells without breaking them.”
Wiggins thought for a moment, wondering what Mr Holmes would have said next. Eventually he turned back to Sneyd.
“So, Mr Sneyd. You say Patrick was with you that night?”
“Yes.”
“That’s very convenient for you, ain’t
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