Monday, October 6, 2008
He calls the jacks Knaves, this boy...
Devious was waiting for me outside the club, playing jacks with one of the other member’s lads. I’d forgotten the ban on entering by any means other than the front door and the imp wasn’t a member.* “You took your time,” he said. “Was the breakfast nice?”
“It was,” I said. “Fried eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes, a piece of kidney and two pieces of fried bread. It was delicious.”
“I had an old shoe,” said Devious. “It was horrible.”
“That’s why you enter service later in life,” I said. “You get fed up with living life for the sake of it and realise where you bread is buttered. Literally.”
“I can see the attraction,” said the imp. “Here’s the money you asked for. I opened an Bull account in the name of Peter Weatherspoon with a hundred pounds in 1948 and drew the interest out this morning. There’s fifty-two thousand there.”
“Excellent,” I said, fishing a coin out of my pocket. “Here’s ten bob for your trouble.”
“Fifty pence?” said Devious. “Ta. I can get a chip supper for that.”
“You owe me fifty pee,” said the boy he’d been whiling away the time with. “I won you at Jacks.”
Devious scowled. “You didn’t win me, you beat me,” he said. “Here.” He handed over the coin.** “Never trust a mortal kid,” he said.
“Mortal?” I repeated. “I thought him a ghoul at least.”
“Nah. He looks like that naturally,” said Devious. “His Dad’s an Earl.”
“Excellent,” I said, turning to the boy. “Here’s another fifty pence for you. Just sign this receipt for me.”
** Remember that Hell for bad grammar I told you about…