Decorum Read Online Free Page A

the tearoom.
    He continued to watch for a moment as if he half-expected to see them reappear, but the moment was gone. He began to wonder if he had really seen them at all.
     
    How events do turn out, thought Jamie. He often dropped into a pensive frame of mind when he was performing mundane tasks such as this—brushing down his master’s overcoat and topper, hanging the coat in the large mahogany wardrobe, and placing the topper in its leather hatbox—all giving the illusion of industry while the mind was busy elsewhere.
    He had come a long way in two years, under the tutelage of a tough but not unbenevolent taskmaster. It never failed to amaze him that the whim of a moment that autumn of 1888 had made the difference between the likelihood of prison and the chance to make something of himself.
    The man had appeared out of nowhere like an avenging angel of God, wearing a black top hat and a frock coat, and carrying a silver-handled walking stick. Jamie would never have guessed that a gentleman so finely turned out could run so fast and deliver such a blow. He thought he could outpace the man and escape with the purse. But the blow had knocked Jamie out cold. When he came to, he found himself covered with a blanket, lying on a hard settee in front of a roaring fire. A pair of dark brooding eyes loomed above him.
    “What did you do a stupid thing like that for, boy?” said the man. “Not very good at sizin’ up your mark, are you?” Jamie could not tell whether the man was more upset that he had been chosen as the mark, or that Jamie hadn’t exercised better judgment by choosing someone else. “You’ve not been at this game long, have you, boy?”
    “I’m not a boy.” Jamie’s head was splitting.
    “If you’ve not been around long enough to be able to size up your mark properly or to know when and how to govern yourself, you’re a boy—I don’t care how old you are.” He had poured a glass of water and extended it to the aching figure on the settee. “By the way, how old are you?”
    “Seventeen,” Jamie replied.
    “Seventeen—sir.”
    “I don’t call nobody ‘sir,’ least of all you.”
    “Considering I could’ve cracked your skull open for you or dragged you off to jail, I don’t see’s how you have much choice—do you?”
    Jamie had sipped the water in silence. The man had turned away for a moment.
    “Seventeen—sir,” Jamie had said without looking up. The man faced him.
    “Do you have a name you’d be willing to share?”
    “James Lynch—sir.”
    “So, Mr. James Lynch, have you been in trouble before?”
    “On and off, but not so’s anyone could catch me.”
    “That’s the trouble with that sort of game. Someone eventually does.” The man stared at him, making Jamie uneasy.
    “You’re Irish.” Jamie had nodded. “Where from?”
    “Sligo,” Jamie said, avoiding mention of his country-bred origin.
    Again silence.
    “How long have you been here?”
    “Not a year.”
    “Family?”
    “None.” The man raised his dark eyebrows. “None—sir.”
    The man went to the hearth and stirred the fire. With his back to Jamie, he said, “And what’s your plan, Mr. Lynch?”
    “Meanin’ what, sir?”
    The man turned and faced him. “Meaning now that I’ve spared your worthless hide, what do you plan to do?”
    “I mean to go out West. Strike it rich.”
    “Doing what?”
    “This and that.” He sipped the water.
    “Look at me, boy. ‘This and that’ don’t count for much in this world without a plan. ‘This and that will get you thrown in jail for sure. ‘This and that’ can get you killed.”
    “I can take care of meself well enough—sir.”
    “Like you’ve done so far, I suppose. Well, at least you’ve got yourself out of Ireland in one piece, I’ll say that for you. When was the last time you ate?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “You can’t do a bit of ‘this and that’ on an empty stomach now, can you?”
    The man had gone to the door and bellowed down