quite satisfied, he peered into one of several holes drilled in the lid, squinting clownishly.
‘Seventy-five of the best in there,’ said a man wearing a top hat without any top on it.
‘We could use a hundred,’ said the publican.
‘A nundred of these beauties takes more than one man to catch.’
‘You used to catch a hundred for us.’
‘That was before himprovements in sanitation.’
‘Well, I hope these are big ones.’
‘Big? Comb their fur a different way and they could pass as ferrets.’
Mr Heaton laid a finger against Clara’s upper arm to get her attention.
‘I’m going to fetch Robbie now,’ he murmured near her ear. ‘Things will move fast from here on in. Remember what I’ve asked of you.’
She nodded.
‘Take your glove off, then,’ he reminded her.
She looked down at her hands, self-conscious at the idea of removing her gloves in a public place: everyone would instantly assume she was a woman of low breeding. But then she realised she was the sole female in the cellar, and that each man must surely already have judged her to be a whore. She pulled off her gloves, finger by finger, and no-one took a blind bit of notice. She could have thrown her skirts over her head, and still the assembled spectators might have kept their attention squarely on the business at hand. Some of the men were already leaning their elbows on the rim of the rat-pit, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder. Clara wondered how it was decided who should lean on the rim of the pit and who should goggle over their shoulders; did it depend on how much they’d paid for admission? Several of the customers were rather handsomely dressed, with shiny buttons on their coats, immaculate hats, fashionable cravats that cost fifty times more than the grubby cotton scarf worn by the rat-catcher. Clara doubted these gentlemen would ever set foot in a place like The Traveller’s Rest, were it not for the scuffling, squeaking contents of the keg.
‘All right, gentlemen,’ announced the publican when Mr Heaton had disappeared into an anteroom beyond the cellar. ‘We have two dogs this afternoon, Robbie and Lopsy-Lou. Less rats than we might’ve hoped. How shall we divvy up the day’s proceedings?’
This provoked a roisterous babble of bets and disputation.
‘A shilling on Robbie to kill five in fifteen seconds!’
‘Two shillings on Lopsy-Lou to kill twenty in fifty seconds!’
‘Here’s a shilling says twelve of twenty’s still kicking after half a minute!’
‘If we’ve only got seventy-five rats, it should be three matches of twenty-five each.’
‘That muddles everything!’
‘Twenty is a good number.’
‘It don’t go into seventy-five.’
‘All my bets is calculated on twenty.’
‘We know all about your bets. You expect to see blood for sixpence.’
‘We can’t have three matches with only two dogs.’
‘’Course we can. Best of three.’
‘Put out thirty-seven rats each match, and god damn the one left over!’
‘Lopsy-Lou is heavier than Robbie; she should have a handicap. I say Robbie kills ten for Lopsy’s fifteen.’
‘Why should a Manchester terrier have it easier than a London one?’
‘Let’s weigh the dogs! Each kills as many rats as he weighs in pounds. The dog that kills his quota quickest is the winner.’
‘I don’t see no scales.’
‘A public house with no scales?’
‘Keep the times and rats the same number, but give Robbie smaller rats!’
‘What bollocks! If he can’t kill his share, he shouldn’t be here!’
‘Why not set a fixed time – half a minute, say – and see which dog kills the most?’
‘I won’t bet dog against dog. It should be dog against rat.’
‘Anyway, what would you do after the thirty seconds was up, and there was still rats alive?’
‘Pull the dog out of the pit, of course.’
‘That’s cruel!’
‘Gentlemen!’ barked the publican. ‘We must begin. Let’s have twenty in the pit for Robbie and see how the first match
‘Seventy-five of the best in there,’ said a man wearing a top hat without any top on it.
‘We could use a hundred,’ said the publican.
‘A nundred of these beauties takes more than one man to catch.’
‘You used to catch a hundred for us.’
‘That was before himprovements in sanitation.’
‘Well, I hope these are big ones.’
‘Big? Comb their fur a different way and they could pass as ferrets.’
Mr Heaton laid a finger against Clara’s upper arm to get her attention.
‘I’m going to fetch Robbie now,’ he murmured near her ear. ‘Things will move fast from here on in. Remember what I’ve asked of you.’
She nodded.
‘Take your glove off, then,’ he reminded her.
She looked down at her hands, self-conscious at the idea of removing her gloves in a public place: everyone would instantly assume she was a woman of low breeding. But then she realised she was the sole female in the cellar, and that each man must surely already have judged her to be a whore. She pulled off her gloves, finger by finger, and no-one took a blind bit of notice. She could have thrown her skirts over her head, and still the assembled spectators might have kept their attention squarely on the business at hand. Some of the men were already leaning their elbows on the rim of the rat-pit, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder. Clara wondered how it was decided who should lean on the rim of the pit and who should goggle over their shoulders; did it depend on how much they’d paid for admission? Several of the customers were rather handsomely dressed, with shiny buttons on their coats, immaculate hats, fashionable cravats that cost fifty times more than the grubby cotton scarf worn by the rat-catcher. Clara doubted these gentlemen would ever set foot in a place like The Traveller’s Rest, were it not for the scuffling, squeaking contents of the keg.
‘All right, gentlemen,’ announced the publican when Mr Heaton had disappeared into an anteroom beyond the cellar. ‘We have two dogs this afternoon, Robbie and Lopsy-Lou. Less rats than we might’ve hoped. How shall we divvy up the day’s proceedings?’
This provoked a roisterous babble of bets and disputation.
‘A shilling on Robbie to kill five in fifteen seconds!’
‘Two shillings on Lopsy-Lou to kill twenty in fifty seconds!’
‘Here’s a shilling says twelve of twenty’s still kicking after half a minute!’
‘If we’ve only got seventy-five rats, it should be three matches of twenty-five each.’
‘That muddles everything!’
‘Twenty is a good number.’
‘It don’t go into seventy-five.’
‘All my bets is calculated on twenty.’
‘We know all about your bets. You expect to see blood for sixpence.’
‘We can’t have three matches with only two dogs.’
‘’Course we can. Best of three.’
‘Put out thirty-seven rats each match, and god damn the one left over!’
‘Lopsy-Lou is heavier than Robbie; she should have a handicap. I say Robbie kills ten for Lopsy’s fifteen.’
‘Why should a Manchester terrier have it easier than a London one?’
‘Let’s weigh the dogs! Each kills as many rats as he weighs in pounds. The dog that kills his quota quickest is the winner.’
‘I don’t see no scales.’
‘A public house with no scales?’
‘Keep the times and rats the same number, but give Robbie smaller rats!’
‘What bollocks! If he can’t kill his share, he shouldn’t be here!’
‘Why not set a fixed time – half a minute, say – and see which dog kills the most?’
‘I won’t bet dog against dog. It should be dog against rat.’
‘Anyway, what would you do after the thirty seconds was up, and there was still rats alive?’
‘Pull the dog out of the pit, of course.’
‘That’s cruel!’
‘Gentlemen!’ barked the publican. ‘We must begin. Let’s have twenty in the pit for Robbie and see how the first match
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