Cedric Raw was over the moon. He crouched on one knee and clumsily pulled one of his boots off. They were a good pair of boots, well made and solid, so they had done the rounds. Cedric quickly dropped a handful of copper coins into one of them and started to put it back on. The boots were slightly too big for him and he knew the coins were going to slide around the sole every time his feet sweated. But he didn't care, the boots were sturdy and still reasonably waterproof. He had taken them off the feet of Gamey Dan, a notorious beggar Cedric had found dead in an alleyway three weeks earlier.
Before standing up he gave his companion's head a grateful tussle. The old scarred and weather-beaten terrier wagged its tail and gave Cedric's hand a lick.
"We done pretty well there," he told the brown and ash mottled dog, "a couple of days’ worth of begging in just an hour of ratting, were going up in the world." The terrier nuzzled the pile of dead rats that lay between its paws.
"We'll 'ave to get a pole to stick them on," he told the dog, "To advertise our new business."
The dog had come along with the boots. Not right away, a few days later, when it had become obvious that no amount of shouting, kicking or stone throwing was going to keep the damn thing away. The dog had been Gamey Dan's, so Cedric assumed it had followed the smell of its master's old boots. Initially at any rate, now they were firm friends, more so after today's work.
Cedric had hated the dog at first. Not wanting a dependant, another mouth to feed, he had tried his best to scare it off, but in the end he was forced to tolerate the beast, who was want to sidle up and sit next to him at every opportunity, nose to boot. Despite the odd solid kick to the snout, the dog always returned and Cedric learned to ignore it as he begged for food and coin each day. Before long, Cedric noticed his takings had gone up and he realised that people felt sorry for the dog and would give Cedric a copper or two extra to buy something for it to eat. He also found the dog inexpensive to keep, as there was always someone willing to throw it a bone or a half finished pie.
That morning, Cedric and the dog had changed pitch and were begging outside the Shipwright and Lobster, down by the docks. The tavern keeper had come bursting out the front door, burley and red faced, and demanded that Cedric stay right where he was. Cedric hadn't survived the streets for the past thirty-five years by being foolhardy, so he turned to flee, tripping over the dog and falling face first into the gutter. A few minutes later, when he had finished flaying his arms and begging for his life, Cedric opened his eyes.
"Is that dog a good ratter?" The inn-keep asked, looking down at Cedric with a bemused look.
"What?"
"The dog, is it a ratter?" The inn-keep repeated. Cedric had no idea, but told him that the dog was the best.
An hour later Cedric and the dog re-immerged from the tavern's cellar a good few copper prices better off and with a new career ahead of them. It turned out that the dog was a good ratter and word quickly got around. Cedric and his dog became so sought after, it wasn't long before they had a regular round of inns and warehouses to tend to each week. Within the year they were so successful that they could afford to rent a small damp hovel, still in the Warrens of course, they weren't that rich, but at least they were off the streets.