Excerpt: Silas Escapes / Charade by Sheridan

Instead of going back to his grandmother's then, Silas took a walk about town. He found a curio shoppe, and went in.
“Got anything for Carnival masquerades?”
“Planning early, eh?” the wizen fellow behind the shelves jollied him.
“I'm going to be baffling. So no obvious stuff. Have you blackening for wrinkles and such?”
“This may serve you. I've rouge, too.”
“Ninety q's, man? I'll be lucky to eat next week with the one.”
“Aw, really I've had trouble getting that rouge off my hands. I'll give you both for the ninety.”
“Then you'll have to wait until I come back, all I've got is eighty bob on me.”
Eighty of his own, change from the necktie. He had a whole dob, from his Grannie, if he needed more else. He went further into the shop, eying the shelves.
“Now odd clothes may help me out, too..and what you got for props? Especially other things that don't sell?”
“What I've got on the cheap mostly is in that chest there. Look about, and tell me what you like. I'll work with you.”
“Slow month?” Silas asked cheekily.
“It's a slow business,” said the man with resignation. “But then, I have a slow metabolism. It suits me fine.”
Silas rummaged, and came up with a dingy workbelt.
“How did you come by this?” he asked, holding it up.
The old man, standing over his shoulder already, hmph-ed.
“Left by a carpenter reframing my awning,” he finally declared.
“Need to make a profit over that?”
“What? Nothing? Oh sure. Two quint.”
“Thank you, sir. Now you wouldn't happen to be in possession of something really dingy to wear?”
“I could lend you something of mine, if it's dingy you're wanting. Or sell it to you. Want to get suited up in my room?”
Silas met his mirthful eyes.
“Now?”
“Come now, lad. Who gets up as a dirty carpenter's drudge for carnival? And plans ahead for it?”
“I told you, to pull one over on them.”
“Neat alibi. And I don't doubt you would do it, either, which is the best part of the lie. It matches you.”
“But...?”
“I recognize you. Especially with jail-time written on your skin. Can I help you? I'm not going to call any police-bobs down on you.”
“Sir—”
“What would I want to send a nice young man back to prison to rot for? Our Marjorie? Pfft. I think not.”
“You are being very good to me, sir,” Silas said, deteriorating into shakes now he was out of danger, as far as he could tell.
“I've aged a few boys in my day. With your sickly pallor it will be the work of mere minutes.”
He left in a matter of minutes, indeed, tactfully not asking the man's name—which was not offered. Thought it wasn't common, Queen Marjorie and her uncle the Usurper still had an official torturer on payroll. Silas was made up like a haggard drunk, and carried one of the man's many defunct (but restorable, Silas assured him) clocks.
He tramped lazily right up to his father's shop door, and barged in.
“Be right with you, sirrah,” his father said unwelcomingly.
Silas sniffed rudely, wiped his nose on his arm and slumped onto the counter.
He guessed this meant he was a success. If his own father didn't give him a decent look, the neighbors were sure to be fooled.