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boy could be much more than twelve, John thought, and wondered what particular kind of trick was being played upon him.
    â€˜Now, sit down,’ he said kindly, ‘and tell me all about yourself.’
    Robin – if Robin it actually was – started on some long tale about finishing at school and being recommended by his headmaster to which John listened, not believing a word he was hearing. Finally, the child stopped talking and looked at the Apothecary with boot-button eyes.
    â€˜Well, Sir?’ he asked.
    John’s mouth twitched. ‘You’re a good actor, I’ll grant you that.’
    â€˜What do you mean, Sir?’
    â€˜I mean that I don’t believe a thing you’ve just said to me. In other words, you’re not telling the truth, my boy.’
    The child opened his mouth to reply but at that moment the door of the shop shot open and another boy whirled in, panting and gasping for breath.
    â€˜Mr Rawlings?’ he managed.
    â€˜Yes,’ said John, going to meet him.
    The newcomer held out his hand. ‘I’m Robin Hazell, Sir. And I apologize for the lateness of my arrival but I’ve just been robbed in the street.’
    Behind him the Apothecary heard a subdued squeal and, turning round, saw the little chap preparing to run. Gently but firmly John put his hand on the child’s shoulder, thus pinioning him where he was. He turned back to the true Robin Hazell, thinking how well the name suited him, for the boy looked like autumn personified. His hair gleamed in an amber aureole, while his eyes, shining and honest-looking, were like glasses of light sherry. At the moment his freckled skin was bright red with a mixture of annoyance and exertion, but when it resumed its natural hue it was obvious that this young man was the handsomest of creatures. Inwardly the Apothecary sighed, thinking how all his apprentices were interesting and attractive people. Once again he felt slightly old.
    â€˜And there,’ said Robin, catching a glimpse of the urchin standing at John’s heel, ‘is the little jackanapes who did it.’
    The Apothecary decided to teach the young miscreant a lesson. ‘You devilish dog, Sir. How dare you come in here with your fancy tales, wasting my time and putting Master Hazell into a fine how-dee-do? Explain yourself immediately.’
    He sat down, standing the scrap in front of him and putting a hand on each shoulder. But instead of speaking the little boy wept, loudly and noisily, until John was obliged to produce a handkerchief and dry his face. He glanced up at Robin and saw that he, too, was quite moved by the sight.
    â€˜Don’t be too hard on him, Sir,’ Robin whispered into John’s ear – and at that moment the Apothecary knew for sure that he was going to take young Master Hazell as his apprentice.
    The urchin continued to howl until the Apothecary boomed, ‘Be silent! Enough of this caterwauling. Now just tell me your story and I will sit here and listen – and so will Master Hazell.’
    He motioned the older boy to take a seat and eventually the little chap said in a voice, punctuated by sobs, ‘I don’t know who me parents are, honest, Sir. I was abandoned at the door of Coram’s when I was a babe. But me mother left a bracelet in me box, so she must have been someone special.’
    John’s heart bled for him. The great man Thomas Coram had founded the home for abandoned and deserted children – who had quite literally littered the streets of London – in 1745. Hogarth and Handel had both become governors and Handel had allowed performances of ‘Messiah’ to take place in aid of the institution. The trouble was that there had been more children than there had been room for, so that a balloting system had come into being. Knowing this, mothers had left their babies in bundles and boxes near the gates of the orphanage and, often, they had put a keepsake in with the