![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gardnerhill posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmes_minorTitle: In the Pocket
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: ACD
Pairing: None
Word Count: 500
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: In which a pickpocket finds himself pocketed by another.
Author's Notes: Written for the March 2024 Holmes Minor monthly prompt “Pocket.”
***
Story on Dreamwidth
Story on AO3
I didn’t have much in my pocket to pick, but the youth who’d crept up on me was clearly poorer than I. So when I seized the bony, dirty wrist I was careful not to harm him as I deftly twisted it and turned to face the would-be flimp. Nine years old, eldest of at least three children, mother toiled in a cotton mill. I kept my voice low as if chastising my son. “You must cover your approach better than that, if you’re to become a proper tooler.”
Terror in brown eyes under a shock of unwashed brown hair. He didn’t cry out or raise a racket – he knew he’d get no pity from passers-by seeing only a grubby brat of a thief caught in the act. A thief who’d decided that supporting the other youngsters at his Camden hovel was worth risking prison or even the gallows (some well-fed Tories in Lords, whose own thefts involved thousands in bank bonds or foreclosures, ranted and roared about bringing back hanging for pickpocketing even by children).
“It’s a pity you chose me. You’d have succeeded with nearly anyone else, and most here have more in their pockets than I do. You chose the correct pocket, your approach was nearly undetectable, you kept an eye out for police, and you’ve the build of a fast runner.”
Now a different terror on that boy’s face.
I smiled. “No, I’m not one of those grownups who collect children off the streets to become robber gangs, or worse. But I too know what it’s like to have no father worth mentioning, and to have a need to prove oneself.” I also had a decent, if shabby, place to sleep and a sullen landlady who sometimes fed me even when I was late with the arrears. So, keeping my right hand round my assailant’s wrist, and torquing my left hand ‘round to my right-hand side (to the astonishment of the boy at my agility), I reached into the target pocket and pulled out its entire contents – two shillings, four pennies, and a humbug. I held it out to him. “If I give you this, you’re not stealing, are you?”
Now he surely thought I was mad. But madmen’s money spends as well as any others’; his right hand shot out and took everything.
“If you want a better source of income, Master Dipper, and one that’s 100 percent legal?” I nodded in the direction of my place. “Ask for Mr. Sherlock Holmes at 32 Montague Street Number 12, for that’s me. I may have an errand or two for you. Don’t be afraid if you see police near my door, for I sometimes solve crimes for them – wicked crimes, I mean, not family-feeding ones.”
I let go of his wrist.
Instead of immediately darting off, the boy looked me in the eyes. “Name’s Paul Wiggins. Not Dipper.” And he was off like a shot.
That two-and-fourpence turned out to be one of my wisest investments.
#
Author’s Note: “Flimp,” “tooler” and “dipper” were all Victorian slang terms for pickpockets.
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: ACD
Pairing: None
Word Count: 500
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: In which a pickpocket finds himself pocketed by another.
Author's Notes: Written for the March 2024 Holmes Minor monthly prompt “Pocket.”
***
Story on Dreamwidth
Story on AO3
I didn’t have much in my pocket to pick, but the youth who’d crept up on me was clearly poorer than I. So when I seized the bony, dirty wrist I was careful not to harm him as I deftly twisted it and turned to face the would-be flimp. Nine years old, eldest of at least three children, mother toiled in a cotton mill. I kept my voice low as if chastising my son. “You must cover your approach better than that, if you’re to become a proper tooler.”
Terror in brown eyes under a shock of unwashed brown hair. He didn’t cry out or raise a racket – he knew he’d get no pity from passers-by seeing only a grubby brat of a thief caught in the act. A thief who’d decided that supporting the other youngsters at his Camden hovel was worth risking prison or even the gallows (some well-fed Tories in Lords, whose own thefts involved thousands in bank bonds or foreclosures, ranted and roared about bringing back hanging for pickpocketing even by children).
“It’s a pity you chose me. You’d have succeeded with nearly anyone else, and most here have more in their pockets than I do. You chose the correct pocket, your approach was nearly undetectable, you kept an eye out for police, and you’ve the build of a fast runner.”
Now a different terror on that boy’s face.
I smiled. “No, I’m not one of those grownups who collect children off the streets to become robber gangs, or worse. But I too know what it’s like to have no father worth mentioning, and to have a need to prove oneself.” I also had a decent, if shabby, place to sleep and a sullen landlady who sometimes fed me even when I was late with the arrears. So, keeping my right hand round my assailant’s wrist, and torquing my left hand ‘round to my right-hand side (to the astonishment of the boy at my agility), I reached into the target pocket and pulled out its entire contents – two shillings, four pennies, and a humbug. I held it out to him. “If I give you this, you’re not stealing, are you?”
Now he surely thought I was mad. But madmen’s money spends as well as any others’; his right hand shot out and took everything.
“If you want a better source of income, Master Dipper, and one that’s 100 percent legal?” I nodded in the direction of my place. “Ask for Mr. Sherlock Holmes at 32 Montague Street Number 12, for that’s me. I may have an errand or two for you. Don’t be afraid if you see police near my door, for I sometimes solve crimes for them – wicked crimes, I mean, not family-feeding ones.”
I let go of his wrist.
Instead of immediately darting off, the boy looked me in the eyes. “Name’s Paul Wiggins. Not Dipper.” And he was off like a shot.
That two-and-fourpence turned out to be one of my wisest investments.
#
Author’s Note: “Flimp,” “tooler” and “dipper” were all Victorian slang terms for pickpockets.
