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“As I thought.” Lowering himself into his seat, the magistrate rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Have you ever killed a man, Sammy?”

“No, m’lord.”

“Purposely injured another person?”

Thrasher carried a pistol, and some members of his gang were known to have threatened uncooperative victims with knives. Thankfully, Samuel’s fleetness of foot had negated the need for a weapon.

“No, m’lord.”

“Never?” There was a hint of skepticism in the magistrate’s voice. “I will have the truth, young man.”

Samuel hesitated. “I believe I may ’ave broken an associate’s nose once.”

“A fellow pickpocket?”

Calling Grimsby a pickpocket was a stretch. The fellow relied on his abnormally large frame and mean streak to terrorize the younger boys in Thrasher’s gang into handing over their gains so that he might claim them as his own.

“In a manner of speakin’,” Samuel said. “He was takin’ somethin’ that belonged to someone who was unable to defend ’imself.”

“An apt description of a pickpocket, I would say.”

Was it? Samuel had not meant it to be. He rubbed at the ache developing across his forehead. Surely he had not sunk so low as to be viewed in the same light as the insolent, tyrannizing Grimsby. And yet, he could not deny that they both took what was not rightfully theirs. An uncomfortable weight settled upon him.

“I ’ad not thought of meself in the same light as one who’s a barefaced tormentor, m’lord.”

“And now?”

Samuel took a breath. As the afternoon had worn on, he had allowed anger at the injustices in his life to overpower his fear and ignite his indignation. But like all fires, anger’s flames needed fuel to survive, and the magistrate’s efforts had done much to dampen the blaze.

“I . . .” Samuel swallowed. Remorse was a bitter pill. “I likely should make a change.”

For a brief moment, a hint of triumph lit the magistrate’s cloudy eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by a countenance so stern Samuel wondered if he had imagined the former emotion.

“Marsden, you did well to bring this young man in,” the Blind Beak said. “There can be no doubt that every time we remove a felon from the streets of London, our city becomes a safer place.”

There they were. The fateful words had been spoken at last. Samuel was to be removed. He forced his chin to remain up even as visions of receiving a death sentence at the Old Bailey swam before him.

Marsden acknowledged the Blind Beak’s praise with an inclined head. “Honored t’ be of service, m’ lord. Would ya ’ave me arrange for Ross’s transportation?”

“Yes. Have him taken directly to the Marine Society, if you would.”

Samuel blinked. The Marine Society? Was that a new name for a holding pen associated with the Old Bailey?

A faint murmur floated across the occupants of the room, and Samuel’s gaze shot from the Blind Beak to Marsden.

“Right away, m’ lord.” The runner’s only visible reaction to the Blind Beak’s order was a slight tightening of his jaw. It told Samuel nothing.

“Wait,” Samuel hissed, drawing his arm back the moment Marsden reached for it. “What’s the Marine Society?”

“An opportunity for ya t’ become better acquainted with London’s wharf,” the runner muttered.

“I am blind, not deaf, gentlemen.” The Blind Beak’s voice cut through Samuel’s rising anxiety. “But if Sammy would prefer to have you rather than me answer that question, Marsden, I believe you owe him a better explanation than that.”

Marsden flinched. “Forgive me, m’ lord.”

The Blind Beak waved away his apology. “Tell him.”

Marsden cleared his throat. “The Marine Society is a charitable organization established by Sir John and Mr. Hanway that prepares boys and young men for service in the Royal Navy.”