Every muscle in his body throbbed; picking pockets in Covent Garden might be dangerous, but there was no denying it was a much easier way to earn one’s bread than hauling coal. The thought of bread propelled him from the cot. He rose and dressed as quickly as his aching arms would allow, filling his pockets with the bread he’d squirreled away following his dinner with the magistrate. It was growing somewhat stale by now, but Pickett had never been in a position to be fastidious about his food, and so he was untroubled by its lack of freshness. He did wonder, however, what he was to do the next day, and the day after that, when the last of the bread was gone. The day’s coal deliveries followed the same routine as the day before, beginning at the quay with the loading of the wagon and continuing with the delivery of the coal into the underground vaults until the wagon was empty. So, too, did the behavior of his co-workers follow the same pattern established on his first day, from Bob’s mocking contempt to the rather patronizing kindness of Tom the foreman.
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