Claude wasn't sure he heard something at first, but looking up and meeting the mans eyes Claude tilted his head slight. "Pardon?"

“Are you from here,” Zechariah repeated, looking slightly annoyed. “Whitby born and raised.”

"Oh" so he had heard something. "Yes sir."

“Been tried in York?”

Clearly criminal history was an excellent conversation starter.

"No" but his heart picked up speed and looked back at his log. "Never left Whitby, couldn't afford it."

“Not exactly a trip one affords,” Zechariah noted dryly, letting his gaze fall back to the book. “Read and write?”

Claude couldn't help the flinch, but was thankful he hadn't gone back to cutting yet. "No sir..."

Even worse than Simon: this man was illiterate.

Perfect. All he need do was remember that each time he looked at him. Zechariah returned his attention to the poem at hand... some Christian drivel that the world might have been spared if Whitman were illiterate.

... Damn it.

At the lack of reply Claude went back to cutting. Once that was complete he went about stripping the middle of the couch down to its bones so he could put in the new ones. "What are you reading sir?" He asked quietly. He use to make Simon read to him, not that his friend was the best reader nor understood Claude's interest in it.

He cast a suspicious look at the workman.

“Leaves of Grass,” he answered as though it were self-evident, though seemed to catch himself after a moment. “Walt Whitman. American poet. I can hardly tell how he became so popular.”