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the ground. Lying in the gutter, Shiner watched as the matchseller made off down the street, surprisingly fast, carrying his crutch in one hand and his tray of matches in the other. The newsboys guffawed at Shiner’s plight.
    “You all right, son?” the baked-potato seller asked sympathetically.
    Shiner nodded.
    “What’d you do?”
    “I think I made a mistake.”
    The potato man laughed. “You can say that again, sunshine. That’s Basher Brannigan. He’s just been in prison for robbery with violence. It don’t pay to upset Basher.”
    Shiner clambered painfully to his feet. “This is stupid,” he muttered to himself. “I’m goin’ home.” And he stomped off towards HQ in a thoroughly bad temper.

 

The Great Gandini
    It was going to be a special performance at the Imperial Music Hall that night, in aid of charity. Sparrow felt a thrill of excitement as he entered the theatre through the stage door, and caught the familiar smell of greasepaint and the sight of scenery and arc lights. He knew that every artiste on the bill was a star, and that as call boy he would be looking after them – including his personal hero, Little Tich, the biggest, and smallest, star of them all. Usually, Little Tich only played at the smartest theatres in London’s West End. But this evening, for one night only, he and the other stars were gracing the stage of the Imperial, which for all its grand name was, in fact, more than a bit shabby.
    “Wotcha, me little cock Sparrow,” Bert, the stage doorkeeper, greeted him warmly. “You’ll have to be on your toes tonight.”
    “I will be,” Sparrow said happily.
    “Can’t have nothing go wrong tonight. Not with who we’ve got coming.”
    “I know. You ever see him, Bert?”
    “Not in the flesh, no.”
    “They say he’s no taller than me.”
    “What?”
    “Little Tich – he’s only about four foot tall.”
    “I was talking about His Royal Highness – the guest of honour.”
    “Oh, yeah,” Sparrow replied. “Him and all.”
    Bert pushed his peaked uniform cap back, and shook his head indulgently. “What are we going to do with you?” he asked. “Go on, now. And just remember to be on your best behaviour, right?”
    Sparrow nodded and skipped off towards the dressing rooms, where the first performers were already putting on their costumes. As top of the bill, Little Tich would be on stage last, so he would not be arriving at the theatre until after the interval. But there was plenty to keep Sparrow busy until then. He changed quickly into the jacket the manager made him wear – it was very like Billy’s uniform, with shiny brass buttons up the front – and went to see if anyone needed anything.
    In the first dressing room, a trio of acrobats were limbering up, bending and stretching so far that it made Sparrow’s arms and legs ache just looking at them.
    The leader called out to him, and asked him to fetch a plate of ham sandwiches from the bar. “A big plateful,” he stressed. “Got to keep our strength up in this business, you know!”
    In the next room, a fat lady singer cleared her throat and trilled a few scales. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she moaned. “Don’t I sound terrible? I need a gargle.”
    Sparrow secretly agreed with her, and doubted that gargling would improve things. Nevertheless, he took the shilling she gave him to buy her “a large gin and polly” from the bar. It would ease her poor throat, she told him confidentially.
    A cockney comic, dressed as a pearly king with thousands of shiny pearl buttons sewn all over his suit, was passing by at that moment. “Need a spot of the old lubrication, Nellie?” he asked, with a cheeky grin. Turning away, he gave Sparrow a huge wink and added quietly, “Like putting oil on a squeaky gate, eh, son?”
    Sparrow only just managed not to laugh out loud, before hurrying off to the bar through the pass door that led from backstage to the “front of house”. The orchestra was tuning up, ready to start