I had a new car. It was an exciting toy, a big BMW 3.3 Li, which means 3.3 litre, long wheelbase, fuel injection. It had a top speed of 129 mph and terrific acceleration. The body was pale blue. The seats inside were darker blue and they were made of leather, genuine soft leather of the finest quality. The windows were electrically operated and so was the sunroof. The radio aerial popped up when I switched on the radio, and disappeared when I switched it off. The powerful engine growled and grunted impatiently at slow speeds, but at sixty miles an hour the growling stopped and the motor began to purr with pleasure. As I was driving I noticed a hitchhiker thumbing a lift. I touched the brake and brought the car beside him.
1.Going to London, guv'nor?
1. Where are you going?
2To Epsom sir, For the races
2. 129 mph.
1.So, how fast can the BMW go?
3.Why did he lie? Suspicious...
2.Its Michael Fish, Sir.
1.What's your name?
He was a small ratty-faced man with grey teeth. His eyes were dark and quick and clever, like rat's eyes, and his ears were slightly pointed at the top. He had a cloth cap on his head and he was wearing a greyish-coloured jacket with enormous pockets. The grey jacket, together with the quick eyes and the pointed ears, made him look more than anything like some sort of a huge human rat. I continued by asking him where he was going. He said "I'm going to Epsom today, for the races. It's Derby day today."
2.Hey that's my belt how did you get it?
1.Ever seen this before?
The Hitchhiker then asked me how fast my BMW can go. I said "129 mph." Soon, we began speeding on the road.
1.So you are a pickpocket?
No! I'm a fingersmith.
We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive, "Watch out for this man," my passenger whispered, 'e looks mean as the devil." The cop came around to my open window and placed one meaty hand on the sill."Name?" he snapped. "Michael Fish," my passenger said. "Address?" "Fourteen, Windsor Lane, Luton." "Show me something to prove this is your real name and address," the policeman said.
Then, as if from nowhere, a lighter appeared in his hand. The lighter flamed. The cigarette was lit. The lighter disappeared. It was altogether a remarkable performance. "I’ve never seen anyone roll a cigarette as fast as that," I said. "My job," he went on, "is a hundred times more difficult than playin' the piano." I think I know what you do;" I said. "You do conjuring tricks. You're a conjuror." "Me?" he snorted. " A conjuror? Can you picture me goin' round crummy kids' parties makin' rabbits come out of top 'ats?" "Then you're a card player. You get people into card games and you deal yourself marvellous hands." "Me! A rotten cardsharper!" he cried. "That's a miserable racket if ever there was one." "All right. I give up."
"So you're a pickpocket," I said. "I don't like that word," he answered. "It's a coarse, and vulgar word. Pickpockets is coarse and vulgar people who only do easy little amateur jobs. They lift money from blind old ladies." "What do you call yourself, then?" "Me? I'm a fingersmith. I'm a professional fingersmith."