Knock—knock—knock. Like that. Like the knocking on a door in a play, when the dead man''s ghost comes back. Not a thief''s knock,
anyway: that is quick and light. You knew what sort of business it was, when you heard that. This business, however, might be anything, anything at all. This business might be bad.
So we all thought. We looked at one another, and Mrs Sucksby reached into the cradle to draw the baby from it and stop its cries against her bosom; and John took hold of Charley Wag and held his jaws shut. The boys at the brazier fell silent as mice. Mr Ibbs said quietly, ''Anyone expected? Boys, put this lot away. Never mind your burning fingers. If it''s the blues, we''re done for.''
They began picking at the sovereigns and the gold they had sweated from them, wrapping them in handkerchiefs, putting the handkerchiefs beneath their hats or in their trouser pockets. One of them—it was Mr Ibbs''s oldest nephew, Phil—went quickly to the door and stood beside it, his back flat to the wall, his hand in his coat. He had passed two terms in prison, and always swore he would not pass a third.
The knock came again. Mr Ibbs said, ''All tidy? Now, be steady, boys, be steady. What do you say, Sue my dear, to opening that d