en-es  Smith - Chapter I
Capítulo I Su nombre era Smith, y tenía doce años.
¿Eso le sorprende? Tenía suerte, por supuesto.
Era un carterista, y los jóvenes carteristas en Londres generalmente no llegaban a esa edad.
Muchas cosas estaban en su contra.
Se enfermaban y morían.
O no eran lo suficientemente rápidos, y morían.
Los hombres del rey trataban de coger carteristas y colgarlos.
Pero Smith tenía suerte.
No pudieron cogerlo y así no lo colgaron.
Era demasiado rápido.

Las calles de Londres eran estrechas y oscuras.
Smith las conocía bien y andaba por ellas rápido y discretamente.
Podía vaciar el bolsillo de un hombre rico en un momento.

Su lugar preferido era Ludgate Hill.
Era una calle muy ajetreada.
Los carruajes entraban en ella por la parte alta.
Entraban por los lados.
Y pronto nadie se podía mover.
Los conductores se enfadaban y gritaban.
Pero eso no los ayudaba.
Mucha gente simplemente dejaba sus carruajes e iba caminando.
"Iremos más rápido si caminamos", decían.

Smith esperaba a los ricos en Ludgate Hill.

Estaba allí una fría mañana de diciembre de 17–.
Un viejo caballero salió de su carruaje y subió la colina.
Smith pensó que era del campo.
Los amplios bolsillos de su abrigo no eran como los bolsillos de un hombre de ciudad.
Smith se río por lo bajo y siguió al viejo caballero como una sombra.

El caballero estaba buscando el camino a una oficina.
Giró hacia Godliman Street.
La sombra de Smith permanecía justo detrás de él.
Los edificios eran altos y oscuros.
Una o dos veces, el viejo se detuvo y comprobó el bolsillo.
Smith se fijó en ese bolsillo.

De repente, el viejo recordó el lugar y giró hacia Curtis Court.
Smith lo conocía bien.
El lugar tenía oficinas en sus tres lados.
Había tres puertas pero solo una ventana.

Smith se movió rápidamente.
Su sombra pasó al viejo.
El caballero no la vio, solo sintió un viento frío.
Un momento después, Smith salió corriendo de una puerta, directamente hacia el anciano.

"¡Lo siento, señor! Lo siento", gritó.

Se movieron a la izquierda, a la derecha, a la izquierda.
La mano de Smith tocó el abrigo del viejo.
"¿A dónde vas, chico?" Gritó.
El grito fue demasiado tarde para que sirviera.
Su bolsillo ya estaba vacío.

Smith se detuvo.
El sonido de pasos llegó a Curtis Court.
¡No podía salir corriendo del lugar! Volvió a la entrada.
Aparecieron dos hombres con trajes marrones, y Smith conocía a los de su clase.
Trabajaban muy rápido.
Sostuvieron los brazos del viejo y presionaron un cuchillo largo y frío en su corazón cálido.
Juntos arrastraron el cuerpo a las sombras y vaciaron los bolsillos.
Smith estaba asustado.
No le gustaban los cadáveres.

"No lo tiene", dijo una voz.
"No está aquí".

Hubo un nuevo sonido en Curtis Court.
Un hombre cojo estaba andando con un bastón.
Smith lo supo por el ruido.
No podía ver al hombre, pero tenía miedo.

"No lo tiene, señor", dijo el asesino.

"Tiene que tenerlo", dijo el cojo.
Hablaba con la voz suave de un caballero.
“¡Mirad de nuevo!“.

"Hemos mirado, señor.
No está aquí".

"¡Mirad otra vez!" ¡Otra vez! Tiene que estar ahí".

"¡No podemos quedarnos aquí, señor! Nos colgarán si nos pillan.
Mire usted mismo.
Nos vamos.
¡Rápido! ¡Rápido! Viene gente".

Smith oyó los pasos de los asesinos de nuevo, y el bastón del hombre cojo.
Entonces el lugar se quedó tranquilo por un momento, pero Smith no se movió.
Oyó voces y aparecieron hombres por Godliman Street.
Enseguida hubo una docena de personas rodeando el cuerpo del viejo.

Pero no vino nadie de las oficinas de alrededor.

Smith se fue de su sitio y salió fuera.
Dijo unas pocas palabras a la gente.
Luego fue derecho entre ellos, como un cuchillo.
Estaba en Goldiman Street, ¡y libre!

Justo entonces se abrió una puerta en el lugar.
Era la puerta de al lado de la ventana.
Un hombre salió de la oficina sin hacer ruido.

Smith corrió durante quince minutos y luego se detuvo.
Comprobó dentro de su viejo abrigo.
"¿Qué he conseguido esta vez?" Se dijo a sí mismo.
"El viejo murió por eso, por lo tanto debe tener un gran valor".

Smith lo palpó y lo sacó
Era un documento.
¿Un documento?
Smith estaba muy, muy enojado.
Era el carterista mejor y más rápido de Londres.
Podía hacer muchas cosas, pero hoy no era su día de suerte.
Porque no sabía leer.
unit 1
Chapter I His name was Smith, and he was twelve years old.
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Are you surprised at that?
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He was lucky of course.
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He was a pickpocket, and young pickpockets in London didn't usually reach that age.
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A lot of things were against them.
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They got ill and died.
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Or they weren't quick enough—and died.
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The king's men tried to catch pickpockets and hang them.
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But Smith was lucky.
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They couldn't catch him, and so they didn't hang him.
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He was too quick.
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The streets of London were narrow and dark.
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Smith knew them well and moved about quickly and quietly.
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He could empty a rich man's pocket in a moment.
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His favourite place was Ludgate Hill.
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It was a very busy street.
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Carriages came into it from the top.
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They came in from the sides.
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And soon none could move.
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The drivers got angry and shouted.
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But that didn't help them.
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Many people just left their carriages and walked.
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"We'll be quicker if we walk," they said.
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Smith waited for the rich men at Ludgate Hill.
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He was there on a cold morning in December 17–.
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An old gentleman left his carriage and walked up the hill.
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Smith thought that he was from the country.
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The wide pockets of his coat were not like a city man's pockets.
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Smith laughed quietly and followed the old gentleman like a shadow.
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The gentleman was looking for the way to an office.
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He turned into Godliman Street.
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Smith's shadow stayed just behind him.
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The buildings were tall and dark.
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Once or twice the old man stopped and felt in a pocket.
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Smith noticed that pocket.
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Suddenly the old man remembered the place and turned into Curtis Court.
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Smith knew it well.
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The court had offices on its three sides.
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There were three doors but only one window.
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Smith moved quickly.
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His shadow went past the old man.
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The gentleman didn't see it but just felt a cold wind.
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The next moment Smith ran from a doorway, straight into the old man.
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"Sorry, sir!
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Sorry–" he cried.
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They moved left, right, left.
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Smith's hand touched the old man's coat.
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"Where are you going, boy?"
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he shouted.
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The shout was too late to help.
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His pocket was already empty.
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Smith stopped.
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The sounds of feet came into Curtis Court.
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He couldn't run out of the place!
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He went back into the doorway.
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Two men in brown suits appeared, and Smith knew their kind.
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They worked very quickly.
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They held the old man's arms and pushed a long, cold knife into his warm heart.
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Together they pulled the body into the shadows and emptied the pockets.
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Smith was afraid.
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He didn't like dead bodies.
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"He hasn't got it," a voice said.
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"It isn't here."
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There was a new sound in Curtis Court.
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A lame man was walking with a stick.
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Smith knew that from the sounds.
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He couldn't see the man, but he was afraid.
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"He hasn't got it, sir," the killer said.
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"He must have it," the lame man said.
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He spoke with the soft voice of a gentleman.
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"Look again!"
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"We've looked, sir.
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It isn't here."
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"Look again!
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Again!
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It must be there."
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"We can't stay, sir!
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They'll hang us it they catch us.
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Look for it yourself.
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We're going.
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Quick!
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Quick!
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People are coming."
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Smith heard the killers' feet again, and the lame man's stick.
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Then the court was quiet for a moment, but Smith didn't move.
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He heard voices, and men appeared from Godliman Street.
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A dozen people were soon standing round the old man's body.
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But people did not come from the offices in the court.
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Smith left his place and walked outside.
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He said a few words to the people.
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Then he went straight between them, like a knife.
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He was in Godliman Street—and free!
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Just then a door opened in the court.
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It was the door beside the window.
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A man left the office quietly.
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Smith ran for fifteen minutes and then rested.
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He felt inside his old coat.
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"What have I got this time?"
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he said to himself.
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"The old man died for it, and so it must have great value."
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Smith felt about and pulled it out.
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It was a document.
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A document?
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Smith was very, very angry.
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He was the best and the quickest pickpocket in London.
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He could do many things, but today wasn't his lucky day.
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Because he couldn't read.
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Chapter I

His name was Smith, and he was twelve years old.
Are you surprised at that? He was lucky of course.
He was a pickpocket, and young pickpockets in London didn't usually reach that age.
A lot of things were against them.
They got ill and died.
Or they weren't quick enough—and died.
The king's men tried to catch pickpockets and hang them.
But Smith was lucky.
They couldn't catch him, and so they didn't hang him.
He was too quick.

The streets of London were narrow and dark.
Smith knew them well and moved about quickly and quietly.
He could empty a rich man's pocket in a moment.

His favourite place was Ludgate Hill.
It was a very busy street.
Carriages came into it from the top.
They came in from the sides.
And soon none could move.
The drivers got angry and shouted.
But that didn't help them.
Many people just left their carriages and walked.
"We'll be quicker if we walk," they said.

Smith waited for the rich men at Ludgate Hill.

He was there on a cold morning in December 17–.
An old gentleman left his carriage and walked up the hill.
Smith thought that he was from the country.
The wide pockets of his coat were not like a city man's pockets.
Smith laughed quietly and followed the old gentleman like a shadow.

The gentleman was looking for the way to an office.
He turned into Godliman Street.
Smith's shadow stayed just behind him.
The buildings were tall and dark.
Once or twice the old man stopped and felt in a pocket.
Smith noticed that pocket.

Suddenly the old man remembered the place and turned into Curtis Court.
Smith knew it well.
The court had offices on its three sides.
There were three doors but only one window.

Smith moved quickly.
His shadow went past the old man.
The gentleman didn't see it but just felt a cold wind.
The next moment Smith ran from a doorway, straight into the old man.

"Sorry, sir! Sorry–" he cried.

They moved left, right, left.
Smith's hand touched the old man's coat.
"Where are you going, boy?" he shouted.
The shout was too late to help.
His pocket was already empty.

Smith stopped.
The sounds of feet came into Curtis Court.
He couldn't run out of the place! He went back into the doorway.
Two men in brown suits appeared, and Smith knew their kind.
They worked very quickly.
They held the old man's arms and pushed a long, cold knife into his warm heart.
Together they pulled the body into the shadows and emptied the pockets.
Smith was afraid.
He didn't like dead bodies.

"He hasn't got it," a voice said.
"It isn't here."

There was a new sound in Curtis Court.
A lame man was walking with a stick.
Smith knew that from the sounds.
He couldn't see the man, but he was afraid.

"He hasn't got it, sir," the killer said.

"He must have it," the lame man said.
He spoke with the soft voice of a gentleman.
"Look again!"

"We've looked, sir.
It isn't here."

"Look again! Again! It must be there."

"We can't stay, sir! They'll hang us it they catch us.
Look for it yourself.
We're going.
Quick! Quick! People are coming."

Smith heard the killers' feet again, and the lame man's stick.
Then the court was quiet for a moment, but Smith didn't move.
He heard voices, and men appeared from Godliman Street.
A dozen people were soon standing round the old man's body.

But people did not come from the offices in the court.

Smith left his place and walked outside.
He said a few words to the people.
Then he went straight between them, like a knife.
He was in Godliman Street—and free!

Just then a door opened in the court.
It was the door beside the window.
A man left the office quietly.

Smith ran for fifteen minutes and then rested.
He felt inside his old coat.
"What have I got this time?" he said to himself.
"The old man died for it, and so it must have great value."

Smith felt about and pulled it out.
It was a document.
A document?
Smith was very, very angry.
He was the best and the quickest pickpocket in London.
He could do many things, but today wasn't his lucky day.
Because he couldn't read.