Desperate for company, Jeremy took that to mean. And it's not like he could blame the man, after an explanation like that. He hadn't had many run-ins with the elite class of the cities he's been to - at least, nothing longer than was required to walk away with a stolen wallet or pocketwatch - but he knew enough to know that description was certainly apt. Always turning their noses up at him, scoffing and rolling their eyes, kicking dirt towards him and telling him their streets don't need any more trash. The kinder folks were almost always those in the middle class, which is probably why he's so surprised this fellow's so eager to offer him a job.

"Well, first off, the idea that "sir" is far too formal a title to give to someone like me," he replies matter-of-factly, as it was something he was used to saying. Still, despite the jab at his self worth, Jeremy faces the man with a smile, coat and hat in one arm while he offers the other for a handshake.

"Jeremy Fitzgerald, sir. If the name's at all familiar, you've probably heard the coppers shoutin' it out down the streets."