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senior apprentices still enjoying their rowdy youth while on the threshold of becoming journeymen—which would bring them a good living and in time, with diligence and perseverence, would likely bring them wealth—while on the other hand, there was Ben Dickens, a mercenary soldier whose prospects, unless Fortune were to smile upon him, were very poor, indeed. He could only sell his sword arm to whoever needed fighting men at any given time, and while the world had not yet banished war, the employment of a soldier was often interspersed with protracted periods of peace. At present, there was no shortage of soldiers in the city searching for employment, not all of it gainful, nor even honest work. And few soldiers of fortune, a misnomer if Smythe had ever heard one, were fortunate enough to live to a ripe and whole old age. Of those who did not die in battle, many became maimed or crippled and were reduced to begging in the streets. He saw them every day, dressed in their worn-out soldier's motley, many of them missing arms or legs. It was not a life for anyone to envy. And yet, as he watched Bruce and Jack listening to Dickens, he could see they envied him. True, he was still young and whole and healthy, but his future was as uncertain as their futures seemed assured. But perhaps they could not see that.
    What they
could
see, though, was Molly. Perhaps because of the words she had with Dickens, or perhaps because Stackpole had chosen to serve them himself, so as to keep an eye on the troublesome twosome, Molly had not come near their tables since the pair came in. But they both noticed her, all right, and their gazes followed her everywhere she went. Smythe saw Shakespeare notice it, as well, but it did not seem as though anybody else did.
    "So then," Dickens said to them, as he finished off an anecdote, "if memory serves me, you lads should both be nearing the completion of your apprenticeships with Master St. John, is that not right?"
    "Indeed, I have but a few months to go," said Jack, "whilst Bruce, here, has a bit less than a year remaining. Then we shall both be journeymen, as you could have been by now, Ben, had you not run off to war."
    "Run off?" said Fleming, rising to the defense of his former protege. "By Heaven, I daresay I would scarce call putting life and limb at hazard 'running off!' Life in London poses fewer risks, by far, than what life as a soldier would entail. Now who could gainsay that?"
    "Not I," Jack hastily replied. "Do not mistake my meaning, good sirs. Odd's blood, Ben always was the man you wanted at your back when things got nasty. Why, I remember that time we had a set-to with the Paris Garden Boys and that rotter, Mercutio, God curse his swarthy Roman forebears, slashed me with his stiletto. I still have the scar, see?" He pulled back the long hair from his forehead, revealing a livid scar that ran across his forehead to his temple. "Damn near took me ear off. He would've done for me for sure if Ben here hadn't pulled him off and slammed his face into a wall. Blind me, you should have seen him! Mashed his nose right flat, he did, and knocked out his two front teeth. We dusted 'em off right proper that night, didn't we, Ben? Those were the days, eh? The Steady Boys owned the streets then, didn't we?"
    "Well, you seem to have somewhat fonder recollections of those days than I," said Dickens, wryly. "All told, we were fortunate not to have wound up in prison or, worse yet, cut up and with our skulls busted in some alleyway."
    "And how is it any different for a soldier?" asked Bruce, with a sneer. "Tell me that, then."
    "Perhaps 'tis not so different after all," Dickens replied, "but at least a soldier gets paid for risking life and limb, though not nearly enough, if you ask me. And truth be told, if I knew then what I know now, why, 'tis doubtful that I would have made the same decision. Either way, when I was with the Steady Boys, as I recall, we risked life and limb for no more reward than the