flew pell-mell down the beaten dirt road, dodging the carts and pedestrians until he reached the shops at the wide intersection.
The greengrocer was already closing up for the day, and the boy had a hard decision to make—wait until the shop was closed and try to find something in the refuse heap in the alley behind . . . or bargain with the grocer using the two farthings he had left. The evening lull was coming on; the time between the day’s traffic and the night’s was no time to be selling fruit. If he did not hurry, he might not get another sale today, and night was no time to be abroad. Though only eight years old, Archie already knew that nothing good happened on the streets of Bethnal Green after dark.
Digging in his pocket, he snatched up the two farthings and ran to the shop. The greengrocer was just doing up the last shutter. “Three apples,” he gasped breathless.
“I’m closed up, boy.”
“Please, sir.”
“No. Come back tomorrow.”
“Please, sir, they’s fer me mum,” he whined, putting on his best street urchin accent. It was the one he’d learned since arriving in the neighbourhood a year or so ago, and most useful for wheedling and begging. “She’s full sick, she is, an’ asked me to fetch her some apples to help get her well, like.”
“Can’t you see I’ve closed up?”
“I got money—I can pay yers.”
The shopkeeper straightened, turned, and looked at the boy for the first time. “You’re the brat ’as been thieving my stock of late.”
“No, sir,” lied Archie. “I ent nivver stole nuffin’.”
“You look like the one.”
Archie extended a grubby hand with the two small coins. “It’s just three apples.” He offered a forlorn smile. “Fer me sick mum, see?”
“God help us,” sighed the greengrocer. “I must be going soft in the head.” He turned back to the door of his shop. “Wait here.”
Archie stood on the pavement at the door while the shopkeeper rustled about inside. The fellow reappeared a moment later with three good-sized apples. “There,” he said, holding them out. The boy reached for them. “The money first,” he said.
Archie delivered the coins and received the apples. He stuffed two of them in his trouser pockets and ran away again.
“A word of thanks would be in order,” shouted the greengrocer after him.
“Thanks!” called Archie without breaking his stride.
He ran until he reached the bridge, taking up his customary spot. As he suspected, the traffic passing from one side of the city to the other had already begun to dwindle. There were few foot travellers and carts, and even fewer horse-drawn carriages. Yet there were still some making their way from the city to the suburbs. He polished up an apple until it shone, and then went to work, approaching each carriage as it passed and calling loudly, “Buy an apple from an orphan! Buy an apple! Help an orphan!”
With the better prospects—carriages containing well-dressed ladies and gentlemen—he often ran beside the vehicle a little way; sometimes, when they saw his determination, they stopped and he made a good sale. He did not bother approaching pedestrians or any of the hundreds of handcart pushers—he never got anything from them but blunt abuse.
He tried each coach that came his way, but the passengers of the first two did not even look out to see him. The third and fourth vehicles, likewise, rolled on without stopping—as did the next three. He had to wait for the next carriage to come by, but when it did, he managed to make three pence—this from a white-bearded gentleman in a tall silk hat.
After that, there were no more carriages to be seen in either direction. Archie waited for a while, watching the shadows deepen around him and listening to the wash of the river beneath the bridge. There were still a few handcart pushers coming his way, and some workers and others on foot, but no carriages. He wondered if it might be a good idea to run along the embankment to the next bridge. Maybe the traffic there was better and he might still make a sale.
Just as he was about to abandon his post, a lone coach bumped onto the bridge from the opposite end. Archie polished the apple on his shirt once more and put on his most abjectly hopeful expression. One more sale would mean supper for tonight, with maybe a little left over for breakfast. As soon as the horses came abreast of him, the boy leapt