The great crowd milled round and excitement made the air tingle; money changed hands on every side. ‘Mousy’ Foster could feel his pulse quickening as he watched. He mingled with the crowd, stretching his thin five foot two inch body trying to see the track.

He hung around and watched the punters place their bets. Most of them had been studying the horses and most of them would lose. Mousy had been studying the punters and he would win.
A cheer from the crowd heralded the start of the first race. Mousy moved nearer to the gents placing their bets. They all seemed to have fat wallets, so he picked a meek-looking, grey haired little man to start with. As the gent hurried back towards the track Mousy crossed his path.

“Opps!” They met with such force that Mousy was nearly knocked off his feet.

“I’m terribly sorry…” began the gent.

“That’s all right,” gasped Mousy, and quickly went on his way, disappearing into the crowd.
When he had covered a safe distance he took his hand from his pocket and examined the wallet. His father before him had been one of the best pickpockets in the business and Mousy liked to think that he had inherited the family talent.

The wallet was big, just the kind Mousy liked. Inside were some official-looking papers of no consequence, but very little money. He was disgusted. As a rule he dumped everything except the money, this time, however, he decided to keep the wallet. Should be safe enough, the gent was hardly likely to report such a small loss.

Looking around, Mousy felt the enthusiasm build up inside him again. The day had only just begun, so he was not going to be upset by one mistake. He headed back into the crowd to select another victim.

Suckers everywhere, all round him, just waiting to part with their money. Mousy almost had to elbow his way through. He studied his victims more carefully this time. No more mistakes. He would even miss an easy picking if necessary, rather than do such a silly thing again. A man could lose his reputation that way.

On his next trip out of the crowd he had three wallets. Emptying them, and dumping everything but the cash, he estimated a prize equal to a week’s wages to a mug thick enough to hold a regular job.
As he headed back into the crowd he noticed a familiar looking face peering at him. It was his first victim.

“Chancer,” muttered Mousy under his bad breath, as he dodged away.

He couldn’t be sure if he had been recognised or even suspected, but in his line of work a man didn’t take chances. Once he had been caught in the act, and now some of the security men knew him on sight– a terrible handicap.

However, he felt professional enough to overcome this, besides he had more experience these days and more confidence. Now he studied his victims, making his choice more carefully and his getaway more quickly. He had perfected his trade and considered himself an expert.

He was in the thick of it again, swaying with the crowd, earning his living. Several times he had to miss promising opportunities because of security presence. On one occasion he had to disappear as his old friend the ‘Chancer’ came close. Strange that he should keep turning up, as a rule the victims vanished after they had made their contribution. Perhaps the old boy had picked a winner before Mousy had ‘picked’ him.

With every success his new wallet grew fatter, but it was a big wallet, and he was greedy, so he worked hard in his determination to fill it.

As the day wore on, the excitement began to die down and the crowd became thinner. Mousy was finding it more difficult to ‘pick winners’, just one more lucky strike and he could go home satisfied.

He scouted around until he found a happy-looking man, must have had a couple of winners to be cheerful this time of day. Mousy made his move, carrying out the job beautifully. Slipping away to the outskirts of the mob, he dumped the wallet and decided that he was satisfied with his day’s takings.

He felt good as he headed for the exit.

“Opps!! Sorry,” muttered Mousy as he accidentally collided with a man. He had seen that face before, why yes, it was the ‘Chancer’. Mousy felt instinctively for his money– gone!

He looked round frantically in the dwindling crowd. Hesitantly, then hurriedly he fought his way to the exit. He was just in time for a farewell wave from the ‘Chancer’ as his taxi drove away.
©Alex O’Hanlon 2005