Mischif was written on the sunlit gleam of the tossed silver penny, bright against the murky London sky. It was shadowed in the flick of his slender wrist and pockmarked face as he strolled past discarded editions of last weeks news paper now plastered to the ground, as he found his interest in the boy selling papers on the corner of the street. He caught the fall of the silver penny low to the ground, and with a fancy flick, held it out between two fingers. The news boy said something witty that the mischievous older boy laughed at, but there was another who did not laugh. The man loitering at the bus stop across the street lowered his notepad and took special notice of the direction the boy now took. He was certain that this was the one.