Not that the hotel would ever hire him as a waiter: they'd said a sixteen-year-old had interviewed him laughed at the word "seasoning" - food, get it? Benny got it and in his head went one better. He was only thirteen: I lied, get it?

Thirteen, but what he laced in height and experience he made up for in depth - in his glance, his sober expression, his seeming seriousness, and his experience of the world.

And they'd gone on: "As you'll be in the kitchen, mostly on the washing up, and the late shift too ..."

Now here he was, with his unhired dog, pinch-hitting for old Gilbert Snow, bringing coffee on a tray.