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Most
of
the
stallkeepers
had
packed
up
and
gone
.
Even
the
hot
meat
pie
man
had
stopped
crying
his
wares
and
,
with
no
regard
for
personal
safety
,
was
eating
one
.
The
last
of
Mort
’
s
fellow
hopefuls
had
vanished
hours
ago
.
He
was
a
wall
-
eyed
young
man
with
a
stoop
and
a
running
nose
,
and
Sheepridge
’
s
one
licensed
beggar
had
pronounced
him
to
be
ideal
aterial
.
The
lad
on
the
other
side
of
Mort
had
gone
off
to
be
a
toymaker
.
One
by
one
they
had
trooped
off
–
the
masons
,
the
farriers
,
the
assassins
,
the
mercers
,
coopers
,
hoodwinkers
and
ploughmen
.
In
a
few
minutes
it
would
be
the
new
year
and
a
hundred
boys
would
be
starting
out
hopefully
on
their
careers
,
new
worthwhile
lives
of
useful
service
rolling
out
in
front
of
them
.
Mort
wondered
miserably
why
he
hadn
’
t
been
picked
.
He
’
d
tried
to
look
respectable
,
and
had
looked
all
prospective
masters
squarely
in
the
eye
to
impress
them
with
his
excellent
nature
and
extremely
likeable
qualities
.
This
didn
’
t
seem
to
have
the
right
effect
.
’
Would
you
like
a
hot
meat
pie
?
’
said
his
father
.
’
No
.
’
’
He
’
s
selling
them
cheap
.
’
’
No
.
Thank
you
.
’
’
Oh
.
’
Lezek
hesitated
.
’
I
could
ask
the
man
if
he
wants
an
apprentice
,
’
he
said
,
helpfully
.
’
Very
reliable
,
the
catering
trade
.
’
