SINGING in the rain and walking up Alfreton Road one Saturday morning, Brian and his cousin Dave whistled the actual song that came from a wide-open radio shop as they stopped at a big window to wonder what they could buy. Dave carried the money because he was seventeen and, so he claimed, could therefore look after it better than Brian, and this was all right by Brian because if it hadn't been for clever Dave he wouldn't be staring in a pawnshop window with a half-share in eighteenpence, a fortune earned by searching for take-backable beer bottles on the tips and collecting a penny on each after washing them well in the tadpoled cut.
Dave was Doddoe's eldest, tall and curly-headed, with sunken cheeks and dark prominent eyes. His sharp face missed nothing as he scanned each window and (like a high-enough camera) took in the pavement from doorways to gutter--bending to pick up a threepenny-bit which Brian would never have seen but which brought their moneybags to one-and-nine. Jobless Dave wore long trousers ragged behind, a brown-holed jersey, and a pair of shoes that let wet in. Brian's clothes were ragged also, but his boots at the