Black Hearts in Battersea by Joan Aiken Page B

anyways, but they keep me so devilish short of blunt that I've hardly two groats to rub together. I suppose you couldn't lend me a cartwheel, could you?"
    "Yes, all right," Simon said calmly. "But I shall tell your uncle that I am taking you, you know. I daresay he'll have no objection, but I don't want to do anything behind his Grace's back." He handed over the coin.
    "If you
tell
him, we're making the whole arrangement for Habbakuk," Justin said discontentedly. "Surly old Buckle will find some way to stop my going, I'll bet you a borde. How I hate him, the cheese-faced old screw!"

    "Lord Bakerloo!" said an acidly angry voice just behind his back. He whirled round. Mr. Buckle stood there.
    "What are you doing in the library, pray?" Buckle said. "You know that his Grace left strict instructions you were not to consort with the cleaning boy and hinder him from his work. Back to your studies, my lord, if you please."
    "Oh, very well," replied Justin sulkily, and began to slouch away, making a grimace at Simon. Mr. Buckle, who had hitherto ignored Simon, now cast one sharply penetrating and strangely malignant glance at him. His eye moved on from Simon to the picture, completely clean at last. Something about it suddenly seemed to attract his very particular attention; he stared at it fixedly for a moment or two, then glanced at Simon again, with eyes dilated, then back at the picture. "Good God!" he exclaimed under his breath, gave Simon a last hard scrutiny, and hurried after his charge.
    Simon, very much surprised, inspected the picture attentively himself to try and discover what had fixed the tutor's interest. The last section to be cleaned was the portrait of a dark-haired boy on a pony. There seemed nothing odd about him that Simon could see; in the end he gave up the puzzle and began putting his tools together, preparatory to departure. At this moment he heard a confusion of voices outside the door and a group of persons burst into
the room, all talking at once.

    The Duke was in front, with her Grace the Duchess, followed by Midwink, the sour-faced valet, and Sophie, besides a couple of footmen and an elderly lady's maid, who was alternately wringing her hands, examining a hole in a large opera cloak she carried, and lamenting at the top of her voice: "Oh, my lady, my lady! Cloth of copper tissue embroidered with fire-opals! Fourteen guineas the inch! Ruined! And lucky you was not to be all burnt in your seats! Oh, why wasn't I there?"
    "Nonsense, Fibbins, we did quite well without you," the Duchess replied briskly. "Now, Scrimshaw, don't stand about gaping, but bring refreshment! We have all had an unpleasant experience and our spirits need sustaining. His Grace wants prune brandy and Stilton, while I will take a glass of black-currant wine and a slice of angel cake. So will Sophie, I'm sure, won't you, my dear? Indeed, without your cool head I don't know where we should all have been. We should certainly not be here now."
    "No indeed!" interjected his Grace. "Gal's got a head on her shoulders worth two of any of those dunderheaded ushers at Drury Lane. Very much obliged to ye, my dear; shan't forget it in a hurry."
    "Oh, truly, my lady, and thank you, your Grace; it was nothing."
    Hearing this praise of Sophie, Simon could not resist lingering.
    "Hallo, you there, my boy?" his Grace cried, discovering him. "You work while we play, eh? And better it would have been if we'd all stayed at home minding our own business. Here's such an adventure we've been through; only just escaped with our lives, thanks to clever little Miss Sophie here."

    "What happened?" Simon asked, no longer attempting to conceal his lively interest.
    "Why my lady wife drags us all off to the opera (and miserable plaguey slow it was, too, I don't mind telling you; I can never make head nor tail of these fellers warbling away about their troubles—pack o' nonsense, if you ask me, when anyone can see they've never wanted for a good dinner in their