Jack, Knave and Fool by Bruce Alexander

of it in the stew, and we’d be sick —a goodly bit might kill us all. Dangerous stuff it is.” He regarded me curiously for a moment, then let the question go unasked. “I would suppose you’re here for our young Master Bunkins. You’ll have to wait a short bit till his morning lessons is done. Oh, he did protest at not bein’ allowed to watch the rattin’ of the belowstairs. But Mr. Burnham was firm. ‘Nothing must interrupt the schedule of instruction,’ said he, and I stood behind him. A good lesson for the boy, I say.”
    “Well … yes, but there is another matter. Sir John said I should discuss it with you first.”
    “A discussion, is it? Well, I hold all them in the captain’s cabin. Come along, and we’ll have this out.”
    He led the way up the hall to the room that had once been Lord Good-hope’s library. Mr. Bilbo had made it his own. Though there were books about, this was plainly the place of a man who had spent a good deal of his life on shipboard. Nautical prints, ship paintings, and seascapes covered the walls. Behind his great desk and above on the wall hung crossed cutlasses — a new touch —and thus he seemed ever ready to do battle.
    He caught me looking at them, somewhat in awe.
    “They’re mine right enough,” said he. “I had no need to go out and buy a pair for decoration, so to speak. They ain’t for decoration, purely. But pull up a chair, Jeremy. Tell me what’s upon your mind.”
    I did as he said and summarized quickly the purpose of my errand, making it clear that asking Mr. Burnham to take on a second scholar had been my idea and not Sir John’s. For his part, Black Jack listened carefully, stroking his dark beard, leaning back in his chair and nodding like some wise Solomon. When I had done, I asked in particular if he had any objection to my putting the matter to Mr. Burnham.
    “No,” said he, “I have none, but mine is not the only vote that matters.”
    “Of course,” said I, “there is Mr. Burnham — “
    “And Bunkins, too,” he reminded me. “He should have some say in this. He’s tight with him, yet in a proper way of scholar and teacher. He may not like sharing his spot.”
    I thought about that then — for the first time. “I shall talk to him alone and let him decide for himself.”
    “The only way to do it. And as for Mr. Burnham, he may not want her, neither. With two scholars instead of one, he’ll be workin’ twice as hard, it seems to me. He may want extra pay if he takes her on.”
    “Sir John thought that, as well.”
    “I believe you should make the offer without namin’ a figure.”
    “I will, sir.”
    Still he sat, rubbing his beard, considering the matter. “This would be Annie, your cook, would it not?”
    “Yes sir, it would.”
    “Her who was at the table when me and Jimmie B. come by for Christmas dinner?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “I knew her before when she worked in this house for Lord Goodhope.”
    “I remember that, sir — or I had guessed it.”
    “Well, it may work out, or it may not. Anyways, I have naught against it. You may put it to Mr. Burnham and Bunkins. The matter is settled insofar as it concerns me.”
    I stood and thanked him, offering my hand. “The matter is done with you, sir?”
    He leaned forward, took my hand, and shook it. “Done and done,” said he.
    I turned about and headed for the door.
    “Hi, Jeremy,” he cried after me, “what think you, lad? Would a ned be too much for the ratcatcher?”
    “I know nothing of such matters, Mr. Bilbo.”
    “Well, he did a good job and put on a good show—why not?”
    “As you say, sir, as you say.”
    With a wave, I left the room and wandered up the hall to the front of the house. It was there in the room which had been Lady Goodhope’s “sewing room,” so called (though I am sure she sewed ne’er a stitch in it), that Mr. Burnham held his school. In its present state I knew it to be a rather bare room with little more in it than a large slate