Free A Very Unusual Pursuit by Catherine Jinks

quick to accept it.
    ‘That I can,’ he said. ‘Stay close, now.’
    But as they all set off, it was Alfred who helped Miss Eames to wend her way between the piles of rubbish and puddles of brine. Because Ned had offered his arm to Birdie.

10
    BOGLE SPIT
    Birdie sat on her little stool, darning a sock and thinking about Miss Eames.
    In many ways she admired Miss Eames, who spoke nicely and dressed well. Birdie had even thought her clever, at first, though not so much anymore. Imagine believing that you could kill a bogle by waving a weasel under its nose! Birdie couldn’t help smiling when she remembered the weasel. As for the suggestion that Alfred should use gold as bogle-bait . . . well, that was just absurd. A purse full of gold couldn’t move out of harm’s way. And what would happen if the bogle swallowed it?
    On the other hand, Miss Eames wasn’t a complete fool. What she lacked in commonsense, she made up for in book-learning. She knew all about Finn MacCool, and could probably name every bogle he’d ever fought. She’d mentioned an Irish bogle and a French bogle; she’d talked of grindylows and basilisks. Birdie had no idea what any of these things were, but Miss Eames did. And the more Birdie thought about it, the more worried she became.
    There could be no doubt that Miss Eames had hit upon a clever notion, despite all her silly talk about sheep and weasels. What if her books were full of scientific advice about bogles and their habits? What if she went away and learned how to distinguish between one type of bogle and another?
    What if she discovered that the best bait for some bogles might be roast goose, or a human skull? Where would that leave Birdie?
    I’d have no living to make , she realised. Alfred wouldn’t need no ’prentice, and would cast me onto the street.
    She shot a worried glance at Alfred, who sat hunched in front of the empty grate, smoking his pipe. Though he seemed no different, Birdie wondered what was going through his head. Perhaps he, too, was anxious about Miss Eames. Perhaps he was concerned that she would figure out how to kill bogles with songs or herbs or charms. Hadn’t she spoken of a bogle that couldn’t touch water?
    ‘Will you let Miss Eames watch us again, after Saturday?’ Birdie said to Alfred. He didn’t reply, so she tried again. ‘Mebbe you should charge more, next time.’ When he remained silent, puffing away, she added, ‘Five shillings?’
    Alfred removed the pipe from his mouth and cleared his throat. ‘If I ask too much, I’ll scare her off,’ he growled.
    Birdie was about to observe that getting rid of Miss Eames might be a good thing when someone knocked at the door. Alfred grimaced. Birdie glanced at him inquiringly, but he shook his head.
    ‘ Who is it? ’ said Birdie, raising her voice.
    ‘Why, it’s Sally Pickles. Is Fred Bunce there?’
    Birdie froze. It was Alfred who answered.
    ‘What do you want, Sal? I already told you, I ain’t got yer boys.’
    ‘And I believe you, Fred,’ Sarah replied. ‘For I think I know where to find ’em.’
    Even Alfred seemed startled to hear this. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded at Birdie – who stood up and went reluctantly to the door.
    This time Sarah was wearing a straw hat instead of her coalscuttle bonnet. And she was accompanied, not by her son, but by a tiny, bent old man in rusty black knee breeches. Birdie knew him, though not very well. His name was Elijah Froggett, and he was a caffler, or rag-and-bone man. Birdie had often heard him calling ‘Ol’ clo’es! Ol’ clo’es!’ as he wheeled his little cart full of scraps and tatters along the street. He was memorable because he had a long, stringy beard like a piece of frayed rope, and because he had never been known to remove his velvet smoking cap. His nose and fingers were stained brown from years of taking snuff. He wore fingerless gloves, a trailing oilskin coat, and knitted stockings.
    Under his arm was a well-stuffed