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His cockney accent was thick. “Me friends call me Tim Tom.”
Jimmy laughed. “That’s one of the best names I’ve heard.”
Tim Tom smiled, revealing all his missing teeth. “It suits me.”
Bo said, “Tim Tom, we’re going to be around for a week performing some labour. You can expect us here every night.”
“Glad to hear it. Now gimme your order.”
Bo rubbed his hands together in delight. “Four mutton pies, chips all around, and whatever fish is being served.”
“Is that all?”
“Definitely not. Four pints of ale, and keep them coming.” Bo slammed a coin down on the bar, and Tim Tom turned to walk away. “What a night!”
Jimmy said, “We got lucky today with old Anders.”
Bo shook his head. “Patrick should have stated two weeks.”
Patrick said, “I didn’t want to lie to the old man. If you ask me, his sons should have stayed.”
“So sentimental.”
“It’s true. An old man with a farm like that— he needs his sons.”
Patrick had been told he had a great deal of integrity, but for him it was merely common sense. The sons should stay to work the land. Families should stick together. Considering that he was raised by a single mother, he appreciated such things. Sometimes he thought of what it must be like to have a family.
Soon after that, the ale was poured, the steaming food brought out, and all the men tucked in. Patrick had to admit that the food was most satisfying, and he looked forward to returning to the Hound’s Bone each night. The mutton was tender, the pie crust flakey, the chips were salted and doused in vinegar, the ale was cold, and the fish was breaded. The hearty meal would provide all the energy that they needed for the next day.
Just then, a man entered the tavern, and all heads seemed to turn. Patrick looked towards the door to see the reason for all the attention. The fellow that walked in had unparalleled posture and was dressed in fine trousers and jacket. As he passed to secure a table in the tavern’s rear, Tim Tom spoke while cleaning a glass with a rag.
“Duke of Faversham,” Tim Tom said. “He comes in at least once a week.”
Bo lifted his brows. “Very impressive fellow.”
“He’s flooding a lot of Londoners into the village this weekend. Having a great ball. Many lords and ladies are invited. He does so this time of year.”
Jimmy shoved a chip into his mouth. “Society and their bloody balls. I can’t understand it.”
Patrick said, “I can. What a treasure trove of interesting and inbred characters.”
All the men laughed. Ned spoke. “Then I’d imagine you’d thrive at a ball.”
Patrick knitted his brow. “I suppose I would.”
“Oh, come on. They’d never think you were one of their own. Although, you’re quite the chameleon, in my estimation.”
Bo took the last sip of his ale and slammed the glass down onto the bar. “When is this ball, Tim Tom?”
“Three days’ time.”
“I see.” Bo scratched his chin. “I can think of a rather entertaining wager for Patrick. If he has the courage.”
Patrick looked across the bar at Bo. Whatever he was thinking, it was mischievous.
