Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Dutch: 23

Hosea: 34

Hosea Matthews

1878

The high sun beat down over the open courtyards of Victory Square. Fountains jetted water into the air and the small city surrounding him felt as though it were pressing in on him. The docks and false freedom of the lake gave off the pungent stink of fish and salt, even at this distance. People filled the streets, ever the more as the church down the way had just let out its service.

Dutch van der Linde flicked the end of his cigarette and grimaced. Back to work. He had made decent progress in the morn but not nearly as much as he had hoped for. A hundred dollars was more than most passersby made in a month, but Dutch aimed for it by the day.

He straightened his cap and waved the newspaper high above his head, calling out baffling yet believable headlines. The newspaper gig, though it worked well enough, was exhausting. The ink blackened his fingers and his routine wrung his voice raw. Still, he hadn't tried it for a while now and it was one of his more reliable schemes. He loathed it. It felt almost like honest work.

He caught the nearby attention of a few men.

"What's this about a war in the east?" asked one of them, coming near.

Dutch forced a smile. Three was too many to take at once. "Read to find out, gentlemen," he said with a great deal more patience than he had.

"Oh, don't bother with it, Adam," his companion said.

Adam handed over fifty cents and gave Dutch a parting smile.

Dutch dropped his own as soon as the man left, giving himself a moment to scowl at the man's back before jingling the dimes in his pocket. They rustled nicely with a thicker billfold, though. That businessman earlier had been a right easy fool. The reminder of his wavering luck spurred him on. Surely it would change again.

Aside from the honest dimes and dollars thrown at him, he managed to filch another fifty in crisp new bills over the next few hours. It brought his grand total over a hundred. By exactly fifteen cents. Even so, it wasn't a bad haul.

Abandoning his spiel, he let his eyes wander over the crowd for easy pickings. He was near enough out of newspapers that he could just write them off. That is, if there was anyone interesting about. The sky darkened, dusk giving way to night, and bringing with it a new set of folk. Young couples, utterly absorbed in each other. New mothers pushing their children along. Families taking a post-dinner stroll. Yet no one seemed particularly worthwhile. He could risk the love-birds by the docks, but they weren't likely to be very good.

"Hello, my fine fellow. Yes, you there."

Dutch raised his eyes to the curious man who called for him. Tall with neatly clipped blonde hair, a man grown, with a wedding ring on his finger. His coat was tailored, made of fine black wool, which a blue silk scarf tucked into, and his leather shoes shone brightly. Despite his youth, crows' feet etched around his eyes. The broad smile he wore made Dutch give his first genuine smile of the day.

Rich fools were his favourite sort.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked Dutch. He edged very slightly towards the street. As expected, the man followed his moves and stood before the darkness of the alley.

"Oh, yes, I believe you can," the man said. "A good friend of mine just got engaged and wanted me to set a message to the papers. Do you think you could take it down for me?"

Bewildered, Dutch took out a stub of a pencil and his own ledger. If it could win him a bonus mark today, a little more play-acting wasn't the worse thing.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Laurence. Aaron Laurence," the man said. "And the friend is a Bart Edwards, his lucky new fiancee—oh, she's a marvelous girl. They met at old Williams College, down the river. Both studying theatre, of all things! I always told him, Bart, I said, Bart, if you want to lie in the mud all your life dreaming of better wages go ahead, but the actor's life is not for me. And he said, at least while I'm lying in the mud, I'll be looking at the stars."

Laurence and Dutch chuckled.

"I've known people like that," said Dutch, finishing up the last notes on what Laurence had told him.

Laurence waved a hand and scoffed. "Optimists and dreamers — aren't they the worst?"

Dutch shrugged. "Oh, I don't know about that," he said. "It's the most human thing there is, to look around your life and want something better, believe things can change."

"Still," said Laurence, "we are all the authors of our own good fortune."

Dutch smiled, losing himself to the sentiment. "Mr Laurence, I couldn't agree more."

"Ah yes, well, where was I?" he asked himself. Holding back a sigh, Dutch returned his dull pencil to paper. Laurence moved behind Dutch, reading the notes over his shoulder to refresh himself. "Oh, yes, college. Bart proposed when they got their first acting job, you see. A tale of Romeo & Juliet, just a small town production, mind. Terrible shame he had to play Mercutio. He watched—"

"Pardon me?"

Dutch whipped his head up from the ledger, his mouth torn between a smile and hanging open dumbly. The man quickly withdrew his hand from Dutch's pocket and took a step back.

"Yes?" asked Laurence mildly.

"Were you—Were you trying to rob me?"

Laurence smiled that same charming smile. "Are you trying to say you were not about to rob my own good self?"

Dutch laughed, pocketing the pencil and dropping his ledger behind him on the last newspapers. "When you walk around alone, at night, dressed like that?" He nodded bitterly, sucking at his teeth, understanding a moment before the man explained himself. He had been played.

The man concealed his smile poorly, adopting a thoughtful expression. "Ah, yes, the perfect mark. The ideal bait for a brash thief who's had a lucky day and wants to push himself. What's your name?"

"Ben Walsh," said Dutch. "And you?"

The man leaned against the wall, smirking. "If you want to play at that, then I'm Aaron Laurence."

Dutch and the man held eyes for a few brief moments. Dutch had certainly met a number of hustlers the last ten years since he had left home. But never had he met an honest thief, one who seemed apt for conversation. An air of suspicion always hung between criminals, he had learned, but he thought maybe he could break this one. There was something terribly earnest about the man's eyes.

"Dutch van der Linde," he said at last, extending a hand.

"Hosea Matthews," the man said. He shook hands with a firm, warm grip.

"Why don't we take a bit of a walk, Mr Matthews?" said Dutch.

The man raised an eyebrow and chuckled darkly. "You wouldn't be planning to kill me and dump my body in the lake, would you?"

Dutch gathered up his supplies of the day. "Oh, not at all," he said. "We're young men with pockets full of ill-gotten gains, with a night open to us for fun and frivolity. Is that not reason enough?"

The man considered it and nodded. "Very well, Mr Van der Linde. Lead the way into this so-called fun you speak of."