His tutor’s words sang in his ears like a lullaby: “Distract them,
laddie and never look at the pocket. A steady hand, a sweet smile and
the skin off your back if you come back empty handed.”
A sailor. Good targets; too befuddled with rum and sun to notice if you
took their shirt from their back. His hand slipped into a pocket and
slid out a coin, while he babbled apologies for jostling him.
He made it to an alley before he realised the sailor had a friend with
sharp eyes...and the threat of a beating lost its sting.
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