Anthony was not having a good time at all, what with the new arrival of this headache-inducing objectification of sensory overload (or, as others called it, a fair). Loud, annoying, disgusting, tacky, and every other negative adjective applied to it.

However, hypocrite that he was, he still went to it. Not because he wanted to partake in any of the activities there, but because of other reasons. There would be a fair amount of people there, he assumed, and as such, crowds. And with crowds, a perfect opportunity to pickpocket some idiots.

Absolutely perfect. Nevermind the fact that he hasn't done this sort of thing in months.

His not-very-carefully thought out plans were interrupted by the fact that within a few minutes of arrival, the damn place had already given him a headache, and so he just speedwalked to the nearest crowd-like thing he could see and sloppily slipped his hand into some random poor fellow's pocket.

Unfortunately said poor fellow happened to be a former Navy commander. He had been trained to be attentive and respond. Which he did now. When he felt something move in his pocket, he turned around, while moving his hand towards where he knew a wrist should be, and, if Antony did not withdraw quickly enough, he grabbed it.

Was Anthony just very careless, or was this man way too perceptive? It was probably both. Anthony noticed the man's movements very quickly, but not quickly enough to be able to save himself from whatever consequences he would face, now. So, when the stranger grabbed his wrist, he just froze and let it happen, staring up at the man wide-eyed like a deer in headlights.

Charles had been entirely prepared for it. He had visited the fair to get an impression of the kind of town his workhouse was situated in and the background of its inmates. He had been told there was a great deal of crime in town because the constable was inefficient, and so he had been on the look out for any trouble makers - potential inmates.

He looked at the young man before him. At a first glance, Charles thought he was a teenager, but then he realized he was older, just short and skinny. "Relieving folk of their hard-earned money, are you?" he said in the thundering voice he had used to scold his men back in the Navy. He did not relinquish his grip, but he kept an eye on the man's other hand, just in case the thug carried a knife. "What's your name?"

Anthhony, on the other hand, was completely unprepared. He hadn't expected this sort of outcome, and he was completely dumbfounded asto how he should deal with it. So he just stood there, very still, and kept staring up at the man.

The thundering voice made him flinch. "No." As if things couldn't get worse, now the man was talking to him. "I'm not telling you." He was pretty dumb, but not dumb enough to give his name to the man who he just tried to pickpocket.

"Very well. It matters little," said Charles. He began to move, pulling the man's arm to force him to walk along. "The constable might know."

Anthony just walked along with the man, not bothering to fight back in any meaningful  way. "No, he doesn't know," he said, basically scared shitless now. He tried to pull his arm away from the man's grasp, but he was way too weak for it to actually matter.

Charles did not reply but dragged Anthony along. The constable would know what to do with this guy, whether he knew him or not. "Have you no work?" he inquired.

Anthony was honestly terrified. He tried to get himself free from the man's grasp for a few more moments, but eventually just gave up, albeit very reluctantly. He felt like he was going to cry. Being killed here on the spot would've been much, much better than being taken to the constable. "It doesn't matter." he said. He was crying, now.

When Charles looked back, he was a little surprised to see the man cry, but he was unaffected. "It doesn't matter to me, that's true..." he muttered. "It will probably matter when you appear before the magistrates."