Money Talks

The London to Brighton Coach at Cheapside (1831) by London William Turner

Inside coach’s drab interior, the wizened gypsy’s coinpurse caught the setting sun spilling through the cabbyside window. The glint of it stung George’s eye with every bump of the cobblestone drive, a painful though not entirely unwelcome reminder to ‘shun the swag’. Not that the old hag would notice; she probably had no idea another person shared her ride, let alone the mob’s newest thief apprentice. He wondered if a jeer of the wagon wheel could adequately jostle her frayed nerves to mask the sensation of the satin pouch escaping her gnarled hand. He had to try something or else it was back to the mines—Lord, I could cough up a coal just thinking about it. 

He timed his breathing with the coach, staring from his dark corder of the cab into the gypsy’s saggy eyes as they bobbed helplessly to the tune of the road. For a moment, he felt as though he was staring into this grandmother’s eyes. Fighting the image, he drew his eyes to the purse, its silver clap. He felt the carriage lift and lunged for the purse with one hand and with the other replaced it with a wedge of folded newspaper. At that exact moment, the whip of the cabby’s reigns cracked in the chilled air, and the gypsy’s eyes flickered to life like two police lanterns, trained first on the newspaper then on George.

Before Geroge could vomit his scripted excuse, the old woman was on him like a dog that slipped its leash. Suffocating under the musk and surprising weight of her many coats, he dropped the prize to feel for the doorhandle. He was halfway out the coach when he felt the burn of something tearing into the back of his neck. With a final thrust, he tumbed headfirst onto the cobblestone to the audible shock of the women shopping on the streetcorner. George rubbed his neck as he sulked into the nearest alleyway. Wet warmth and the smell of iron confirmed what he already knew to be a nasty bite. But there was something else too, a couple somethings, hard and embedded into his skin. A few wiggles to either side had them out. Two gold crowns, one still attached to a withered, black tooth. 

A smile edged across his face. That bite was worth three weeks in the coal mines. And maybe a pat on the back from the boys besides, after he flipped it of course. They didn’t need to know the details. Teeth bite, but money talks.