The Hangman's Revolution Read Online Free PDF Page A

mine.”
    Riley nodded. Bob would flood the town with Old Nichol muck snipes. If anyone could sniff out hide or hair of a lost man, it was a hungry urchin from the tenements.
    “How are the Trips? Is the show set?”
    The Trips were Bob’s brothers, whom Riley had lodged with a decent widow woman who made sure they got grub and schooling. In their spare time they helped around the theater and ran errands.
    “Still set, same as the last time you asked,” said Bob. “Mirrors, smoke bombs, flashers, blades, gramophone, curtains loaded. The sack is stuffed with rats, as we used to say back in the Nichol. I sent ’em out with playbills. Paper the whole town they will.”
    “Excellent,” said Riley, taking the dozen or so steps to the small kitchen, where a hot roll and a mug of ale waited for him on the corner table. “I told you, Bob. I ain’t drinking no more before nightfall. Chevie would have my scalp.”
    Bob shrugged, then helped himself to the ale. “Ah, yes, the Injun princess. It wouldn’t do to earn Chevron’s displeasure, ’er being in the future and all.”
    Bob Winkle had taken active part in the final act of Riley’s struggle with Garrick and so was well-ish versed on the time-traveling shenanigans, though he only knew the half of it and only believed a quarter of that.
    “Chevie’s gone, Riley,” said Bob, then emphasized his pronouncement with an ale belch. “Into the henceforth, or into a hole in the ground. You said it yerself, she’s likely to have earhole palpitations.”
    “Smarthole mutations,” corrected Riley.
    “Whichever, makes no odds. The point being that much as I would love to be reunited with Miss Chevie, seeing as she expressed a wish to walk out with me, it ain’t very likely. So live yer life according to yer own needs and not under the shadow of the future.”
    This was quite the speech; Riley suspected that Bob Winkle missed Chevie almost as much as he did.
    “There is nothing wrong with learning lessons, Bob, and adjusting yer behavior according-wise.”
    Bob finished the beer. “Don’t I know it, boss? I ain’t attended a single rat fight since we moved here. Nor trawled the Belgravia sewers for posh drain droppings.”
    “Ah, sewage-dipped posh droppings,” said Riley, deadpan. “The pearls of London town.”
    Bob grinned, revealing a row of ivories that were remarkably white for a tenement graduate. “Hark at the comedian. P’raps we should give you a second spot on the playbill. How’s about Charlie Chuckles as a moniker?”
    Riley returned his mate’s smile and bowed low. “Charles Chuckles, Esquire, at your service.”
    They both laughed, and then Riley finished his roll, chewing slowly, enjoying the slow dissolve of fresh-baked dough, untainted by the fear of a sudden blow from Garrick.
    I ain’t afraid, he thought. At this exact moment in the day, I ain’t afraid.
    Riley felt as though his caged heart had been set free.
    “Ahem,” said Bob. “When you has finished with the far-off looks and the simpleton smiling, we should be doing a final run-through before I skedaddles.”
    Riley affected a stern gaze. “You are cognizant of the fact that I am your boss, Master Winkle?”
    Bob huffed and descended the three wooden steps to the backstage area. “I ain’t even cognizant of the meaning of the word cognizant .” He paused at the foot of the steps. “And Bob Winkle has a rule: if he don’t understand it, then sod it.”
    Not a bad rule, thought Riley; then he followed his friend into the belly of the theater.
    Our theater, he realized, and a jaunty spring introduced itself to his step. It was quite possible that Riley had never even formulated a sentence containing the word jaunty , not to mention contemplated becoming a living example of its definition.
    Jaunty, thought Riley. Look at me, all jaunty and such. Jaunty Riley.
    The stage was modest by the standards of London’s famous West End, barely fifteen feet from left to right, twenty if