The toff yells at the boy over his shoulder. He tells him to hurry up. Again. Don't dawdle and all that. The toff’s the only person in a hurry in all of Glenholm. The boy harumphs and jogs to catch up. What's the rush anyhow? If his uncle lives in the village or anywhere nearby, then chances are he won't be leaving anytime soon. They're more likely to find him dead than out of town. Then he'll have not just a family but an inheritance as well and maybe he'll be as rich as any toff. Maybe richer still.
The boy smirks and daydreams on. Maybe he's the long lost nephew of a lord. He could be nobility. Heck, he could have estates for leagues around. He could own Glenholm. Maybe that bit’s less likely than the rest of his hopes. Maybe. But he can dream, can't he? That's what boyhood is for: dreaming impossible dreams and hoping impossible hopes.
A new beginning. He believes those words now, except they’re no longer just words. It's reality. It's what he's always hoped for without knowing it.
It's home.
The toff storms through streets. The boy skips, not far behind. He spins like a top, looking round and around, taking in everything there is to find. He knows he will, in time, come to know and love these streets well (as if he didn't like them already). That doesn't mean he can't get a head start.
The second stop on the toff’s inquisition is the local ale house. It's a squat building, built of sagging beams and plastered brick walls sunk low to the ground. It's old too. Must be a hundred years at least. Likely older than that. That said, it's in damn good shape for its age. The door fits well in its frame despite how the building’s settled over the years. It opens with a creak you can hear clear to the other side of town, but readily moves at a touch.
The savoury aroma of tonight's supper floats through the doorway and hits the boy like a heavyweight's right hook. He reels. Takes him a full minute to come back to his senses. Wouldn't you know it, he's drooling on the doorstep and the barmaid behind the counter is telling him to get out. They don't let minors in here. Not since the shenanigans two summers ago. Not unless he has a father to drag home.
“Not a father, an uncle,” he says.
The barmaid cocks her head. “And who might that be? I don't think I've seen you around.”
The toff pushes the boy aside and steps forward. “Good day miss! I am Henry M. Peddleson of the Charitable Organization for Destitute Youths (or CODY, if you prefer). Might I add that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He's making doe eyes at the barmaid. The toff is making doe eyes.
The boy mimes a gag. The toff doesn't see, thank goodness. The barmaid, on the other hand, notices all too well. She tries to swallow back that grin as best she can (she does a terrible job of it) and refocuses on the toff. Sadly, she does it too late. The toff remembers why he's there, he remembers the boy.
He turns to him, scowling at first, then smiles like a weasel, sticky with fake kindness and sickeningly sweet. “How about you wait outside John while the adults talk.”
Behind him, the barmaid pulls a face.
The boy, reluctant to part from the heavenly smell of the cook's pot, drags his feet. When the hard look the toff's shooting his way doesn't spur him on fast enough, he shows him to the door himself and slams it on his heels for good measure.
“It's not John,” the boy belatedly mutters towards the door.
The door doesn't respond. Not a syllable can be heard through the thing even with an ear pressed against it. They don't make doors this thick anymore. It's probably as ancient as the rest of the pub. Either way, eavesdropping is off today's menu, much like anything else that’s cooking inside. Damn.
The boy looks around for other means of amusing himself, be it kicking stones or trying, and consequently failing, to read the pub sign. He throws stones at the sign, trying to make it swing. He swears at his crumby aim with words the toff wouldn't recognize. Eventually, he seats himself on the ground by the door and resigns himself to people watching; mostly the gypsies a few blocks away and the occasional passersby.
The bulge in his pocket sticks in his side. It's the package from the grocer lady. What did she give him? He takes it out to fiddle with the paper, trying to work out the many folds without tearing it. He gives up and rips it to shreds anyways, nearly tearing apart what’s inside. Thankfully, he stops himself before he goes too far. He grins toothily at what he's holding and sinks his teeth in, praising that lovely lady all the while.
A bread roll. That’s what she’d smuggled him while the toff's back was turned. ‘For the road.’ The dough is no longer warm, but it's still soft and tender and oh so delicious. It's got nuts and raisins and everything. And this was on the house! Glenholm’s getting better by the second.
He leans into the wall, belly full, idly kicking up dust with a silly grin plastered all over his face. Life doesn't get any better than this, no sir. He happily watches the clouds go by… And he's bored again.
What in blazes is taking the toff so long?
The boy gets up to peer through the pub’s windows. They're as big as the ones on the carriage. So small, though it's not unusual for ye olde places like this. Why is it that the older a building is, the tinier the windows are? Do the windows disappear altogether if the place is old enough? If so, how do the people inside see? They'd have to have a lot of candles. It's a waste of good tallow when one little window can give you good, strong sunlight to see by. Ah, but first, the window needs to let the light go through it; that also means you have to be able to see through the damn thing.
He squints at the pane, then presses his nose up against it. Still can't see a thing. The sun is behind him, which isn't doing him any favours. The toff and the barmaid probably see him making faces just fine; how quickly the toff storms out afterwards proves it.
His face is red and his hat is on crooked. He points straight at the boy. “You…” He takes a deep breath. “Get up you. We're going somewhere else.”
The boy picks himself up, dusts himself off, and runs after the toff. The whole process only takes a few seconds, but the toff gets real good mileage when he's fuming. What's put a bee in his bonnet anyhow?
Oh. Maybe it was that? Doe eyes. Yuck.
“Did you get snubbed?” The boy puffs once he's caught up.
The toff nearly falls onto his face. He shifts through increasingly bolder hues of crimson as he stutters this and that. The boy can't make out a word of it, not that it matters. He has his answer, loud and clear.
Seeing the toff so out of his element must have made him bold, recklessly so. What else could make him say “She definitely snubbed you”? He gets a boxing to his ears for his “sheer cheek”, as the toff puts it. He should’ve seen it coming. Should've known better. Should've kept his mouth shut. It's one of the first rules, if not the first, that he learned in life: you're always too poor to afford cheek. Unless you have someone big to back you up, then you can go nuts.
The boy isn't home yet and won't be until he finds his uncle, but find him he will. You can be assured of that. Then he'll give the toff a piece of his mind. He rubs his sore ear and glares at the toff. Oh, he'll give him a piece of his mind alright, but for now he has to put up with him and this wild goose chase of his.
Their third stop is what passes for the Glenholm post office, an establishment whose primary business is as a tobacco shop. Apparently Glenholm needs more snuff than it needs letters sent. The dazed mail clerk come tobacco cutter (or is it the other way around?) is at a complete loss about what, exactly, a post office does.
There's a sweet smog hanging heavy around the roof beams. It stings the boy's eyes and makes his head swim. He vaguely recognises the smell from what occasionally seeps out the seams of cellar windows in the city's seedier slums. There's no way in hell there isn't stuff stronger than tobacco hidden in the shop’s backroom. Chances are the fellow at the front desk has been sampling his stock. The bugger can barely stand.
The toff is not amused, he's outright disgusted. He turns his nose up at the place and the druggie staggering at the register and the smell and the everything. He leaves as soon as he sets foot inside, dutifully pulling the boy with him.
Fourth stop: the bank across the road from the post office. The clerk manning the desk here is the mirror opposite of the one from the “tobacco” shop. He's well trimmed and the suit he's wearing is new, fits like custom made too. How strange. The boy hasn't seen any tailor shops around. Is there one in Glenholm?
The toff warms up to this clerk immediately. The boy overhears him mutter, “Finally, civilization.” Must be the common fashion sense that appeals to him.
The clerk, on the other hand, isn't fond of the toff. The boy would say he looks disappointed to see him, but that's ridiculous. Since when is a banker unhappy to see a toff?
“Good day, sir. I am-” The toff goes on the same spiel he did back in the bar, minus the doe eyes and the “pleasure to meet you” bit.
The banker isn't impressed. He remains surly and bored and doesn't show so much as a twitch of interest. What kind of banker doesn't like toffs? This one, apparently.
“Are you sure you're a banker?” The boy asks.
The toff is appalled at his rudeness. The only thing keeping him from doling out a good smack for speaking out of turn is the present company (he'll make up for it later, no doubt).
The banker, meanwhile, gives the boy a stare too hard, too wary. “And just what are you implying?” The subtext comes through loud and clear: ‘How dare you accuse me.’ He’s not denying squat though.
The toff rapid fires apologies, simultaneously scorning the boy while he tries to salvage the situation. It’s a critical moment. This is likely the only civilized company he’ll see in a backwater ditch like Glenholm. The banker, on the other hand, remains thoroughly unmoved. In the face of this immovable object, the toff is quickly running out of steam. The pauses in between words get longer, actual words become fewer until the toff is red in the face again and not just because he's out of breath. The boy stares him. He didn't think a toff could ever run out of breath; he didn't think it possible. He doesn’t think of the man's suffering otherwise.
The toff, noticing his smaller, more vulnerable audience, addresses the boy instead. “What are you looking at?”
The boy blinks. “...Nuthin’.” He’s as underwhelmed by the toff as the banker is by now.
“As amusing as the present drama has been, I’m not one for theater. Furthermore, I don’t have all day to tarry away with the likes of you folk while paying customers are kept waiting,” the banker loudly proclaims to a building without a single soul in it except the three stooges in that very room.
Yes, in a clearly prosperous bank like this, during a weekday no less, there are only those three in the entire establishment. The boy would know. He counted (not that it was hard to).
Not one for theater my ass. Clearly someone's playing a scene here, and he's sitting mighty comfy, cozy in that velvet chair of his. Well, if that's the way he wants it, let's show him he's not the only decent actor in Glenholm anymore. The boy brings out all the bells and whistles for this role he's chosen: the sweet, naive boy with puppy dog eyes. “Actually, we do have business here, good sir.” Quite coincidentally, he picks up the slack left hanging in the conversation by the toff. (You’re welcome, he glares.)
The banker, mildly intrigued by the boy’s sudden performance, leans back in his plush chair and nods to him to continue. Looks like you're interested after all, so long as the play and actors are to your liking, you fat, pompous jerk.
“We’re here in Glenholm to look for a rely-tive of mine.” The boy dully rehearses the lines in the sugary, ‘good boy’s’ manner of speech that did him well during his stint as a beggar. “Perhaps you might have heard of him?” He does the little head tilt and pout that bewitched the the old ladies of the Christian Volunteer’s Association. Even the banker isn't as stony as he was moments ago. The boy grins to himself. He still has his old charm. Now that the target is buttered up like a roast ham, it’s time to get to what matters. “Do you know a Mister Ezekiel Myr?”
The banker shuts down. He’s worse now than when the toff was blathering. If he was stony then, he’s a mountain now. The boy doesn’t understand why. Why now? It should’ve been a cinch. He had him, goddamnit!
The banker’s look is sharp and impenetrable. He speaks slowly. “What do the likes of you have to do with Myr?”
The second stop on the toff’s inquisition is the local ale house. It's a squat building, built of sagging beams and plastered brick walls sunk low to the ground. It's old too. Must be a hundred years at least. Likely older than that. That said, it's in damn good shape for its age. The door fits well in its frame despite how the building’s settled over the years. It opens with a creak you can hear clear to the other side of town, but readily moves at a touch.
The savoury aroma of tonight's supper floats through the doorway and hits the boy like a heavyweight's right hook. He reels. Takes him a full minute to come back to his senses. Wouldn't you know it, he's drooling on the doorstep and the barmaid behind the counter is telling him to get out. They don't let minors in here. Not since the shenanigans two summers ago. Not unless he has a father to drag home.
“Not a father, an uncle,” he says.
The barmaid cocks her head. “And who might that be? I don't think I've seen you around.”
The toff pushes the boy aside and steps forward. “Good day miss! I am Henry M. Peddleson of the Charitable Organization for Destitute Youths (or CODY, if you prefer). Might I add that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He's making doe eyes at the barmaid. The toff is making doe eyes.
The boy mimes a gag. The toff doesn't see, thank goodness. The barmaid, on the other hand, notices all too well. She tries to swallow back that grin as best she can (she does a terrible job of it) and refocuses on the toff. Sadly, she does it too late. The toff remembers why he's there, he remembers the boy.
He turns to him, scowling at first, then smiles like a weasel, sticky with fake kindness and sickeningly sweet. “How about you wait outside John while the adults talk.”
Behind him, the barmaid pulls a face.
The boy, reluctant to part from the heavenly smell of the cook's pot, drags his feet. When the hard look the toff's shooting his way doesn't spur him on fast enough, he shows him to the door himself and slams it on his heels for good measure.
“It's not John,” the boy belatedly mutters towards the door.
The door doesn't respond. Not a syllable can be heard through the thing even with an ear pressed against it. They don't make doors this thick anymore. It's probably as ancient as the rest of the pub. Either way, eavesdropping is off today's menu, much like anything else that’s cooking inside. Damn.
The boy looks around for other means of amusing himself, be it kicking stones or trying, and consequently failing, to read the pub sign. He throws stones at the sign, trying to make it swing. He swears at his crumby aim with words the toff wouldn't recognize. Eventually, he seats himself on the ground by the door and resigns himself to people watching; mostly the gypsies a few blocks away and the occasional passersby.
The bulge in his pocket sticks in his side. It's the package from the grocer lady. What did she give him? He takes it out to fiddle with the paper, trying to work out the many folds without tearing it. He gives up and rips it to shreds anyways, nearly tearing apart what’s inside. Thankfully, he stops himself before he goes too far. He grins toothily at what he's holding and sinks his teeth in, praising that lovely lady all the while.
A bread roll. That’s what she’d smuggled him while the toff's back was turned. ‘For the road.’ The dough is no longer warm, but it's still soft and tender and oh so delicious. It's got nuts and raisins and everything. And this was on the house! Glenholm’s getting better by the second.
He leans into the wall, belly full, idly kicking up dust with a silly grin plastered all over his face. Life doesn't get any better than this, no sir. He happily watches the clouds go by… And he's bored again.
What in blazes is taking the toff so long?
The boy gets up to peer through the pub’s windows. They're as big as the ones on the carriage. So small, though it's not unusual for ye olde places like this. Why is it that the older a building is, the tinier the windows are? Do the windows disappear altogether if the place is old enough? If so, how do the people inside see? They'd have to have a lot of candles. It's a waste of good tallow when one little window can give you good, strong sunlight to see by. Ah, but first, the window needs to let the light go through it; that also means you have to be able to see through the damn thing.
He squints at the pane, then presses his nose up against it. Still can't see a thing. The sun is behind him, which isn't doing him any favours. The toff and the barmaid probably see him making faces just fine; how quickly the toff storms out afterwards proves it.
His face is red and his hat is on crooked. He points straight at the boy. “You…” He takes a deep breath. “Get up you. We're going somewhere else.”
The boy picks himself up, dusts himself off, and runs after the toff. The whole process only takes a few seconds, but the toff gets real good mileage when he's fuming. What's put a bee in his bonnet anyhow?
Oh. Maybe it was that? Doe eyes. Yuck.
“Did you get snubbed?” The boy puffs once he's caught up.
The toff nearly falls onto his face. He shifts through increasingly bolder hues of crimson as he stutters this and that. The boy can't make out a word of it, not that it matters. He has his answer, loud and clear.
Seeing the toff so out of his element must have made him bold, recklessly so. What else could make him say “She definitely snubbed you”? He gets a boxing to his ears for his “sheer cheek”, as the toff puts it. He should’ve seen it coming. Should've known better. Should've kept his mouth shut. It's one of the first rules, if not the first, that he learned in life: you're always too poor to afford cheek. Unless you have someone big to back you up, then you can go nuts.
The boy isn't home yet and won't be until he finds his uncle, but find him he will. You can be assured of that. Then he'll give the toff a piece of his mind. He rubs his sore ear and glares at the toff. Oh, he'll give him a piece of his mind alright, but for now he has to put up with him and this wild goose chase of his.
Their third stop is what passes for the Glenholm post office, an establishment whose primary business is as a tobacco shop. Apparently Glenholm needs more snuff than it needs letters sent. The dazed mail clerk come tobacco cutter (or is it the other way around?) is at a complete loss about what, exactly, a post office does.
There's a sweet smog hanging heavy around the roof beams. It stings the boy's eyes and makes his head swim. He vaguely recognises the smell from what occasionally seeps out the seams of cellar windows in the city's seedier slums. There's no way in hell there isn't stuff stronger than tobacco hidden in the shop’s backroom. Chances are the fellow at the front desk has been sampling his stock. The bugger can barely stand.
The toff is not amused, he's outright disgusted. He turns his nose up at the place and the druggie staggering at the register and the smell and the everything. He leaves as soon as he sets foot inside, dutifully pulling the boy with him.
Fourth stop: the bank across the road from the post office. The clerk manning the desk here is the mirror opposite of the one from the “tobacco” shop. He's well trimmed and the suit he's wearing is new, fits like custom made too. How strange. The boy hasn't seen any tailor shops around. Is there one in Glenholm?
The toff warms up to this clerk immediately. The boy overhears him mutter, “Finally, civilization.” Must be the common fashion sense that appeals to him.
The clerk, on the other hand, isn't fond of the toff. The boy would say he looks disappointed to see him, but that's ridiculous. Since when is a banker unhappy to see a toff?
“Good day, sir. I am-” The toff goes on the same spiel he did back in the bar, minus the doe eyes and the “pleasure to meet you” bit.
The banker isn't impressed. He remains surly and bored and doesn't show so much as a twitch of interest. What kind of banker doesn't like toffs? This one, apparently.
“Are you sure you're a banker?” The boy asks.
The toff is appalled at his rudeness. The only thing keeping him from doling out a good smack for speaking out of turn is the present company (he'll make up for it later, no doubt).
The banker, meanwhile, gives the boy a stare too hard, too wary. “And just what are you implying?” The subtext comes through loud and clear: ‘How dare you accuse me.’ He’s not denying squat though.
The toff rapid fires apologies, simultaneously scorning the boy while he tries to salvage the situation. It’s a critical moment. This is likely the only civilized company he’ll see in a backwater ditch like Glenholm. The banker, on the other hand, remains thoroughly unmoved. In the face of this immovable object, the toff is quickly running out of steam. The pauses in between words get longer, actual words become fewer until the toff is red in the face again and not just because he's out of breath. The boy stares him. He didn't think a toff could ever run out of breath; he didn't think it possible. He doesn’t think of the man's suffering otherwise.
The toff, noticing his smaller, more vulnerable audience, addresses the boy instead. “What are you looking at?”
The boy blinks. “...Nuthin’.” He’s as underwhelmed by the toff as the banker is by now.
“As amusing as the present drama has been, I’m not one for theater. Furthermore, I don’t have all day to tarry away with the likes of you folk while paying customers are kept waiting,” the banker loudly proclaims to a building without a single soul in it except the three stooges in that very room.
Yes, in a clearly prosperous bank like this, during a weekday no less, there are only those three in the entire establishment. The boy would know. He counted (not that it was hard to).
Not one for theater my ass. Clearly someone's playing a scene here, and he's sitting mighty comfy, cozy in that velvet chair of his. Well, if that's the way he wants it, let's show him he's not the only decent actor in Glenholm anymore. The boy brings out all the bells and whistles for this role he's chosen: the sweet, naive boy with puppy dog eyes. “Actually, we do have business here, good sir.” Quite coincidentally, he picks up the slack left hanging in the conversation by the toff. (You’re welcome, he glares.)
The banker, mildly intrigued by the boy’s sudden performance, leans back in his plush chair and nods to him to continue. Looks like you're interested after all, so long as the play and actors are to your liking, you fat, pompous jerk.
“We’re here in Glenholm to look for a rely-tive of mine.” The boy dully rehearses the lines in the sugary, ‘good boy’s’ manner of speech that did him well during his stint as a beggar. “Perhaps you might have heard of him?” He does the little head tilt and pout that bewitched the the old ladies of the Christian Volunteer’s Association. Even the banker isn't as stony as he was moments ago. The boy grins to himself. He still has his old charm. Now that the target is buttered up like a roast ham, it’s time to get to what matters. “Do you know a Mister Ezekiel Myr?”
The banker shuts down. He’s worse now than when the toff was blathering. If he was stony then, he’s a mountain now. The boy doesn’t understand why. Why now? It should’ve been a cinch. He had him, goddamnit!
The banker’s look is sharp and impenetrable. He speaks slowly. “What do the likes of you have to do with Myr?”
Thar be edits. More wording stuff, more streamlining... 'Nuff said.
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