that

some gambling

of the Della Elmo’s Trattoria were quite good tippers. It was close to the San Marco, and it was fashionable right now.
Marco joined the milling lot of a half-dozen other boys in the shabby back hall, claiming Michelo’s apron from its wooden hook and bobbing awkwardly to the burly owner. “Michelo still got th’ bad ankle?” the square-faced man asked gruffly.
“Yes, milord,” Marco replied, scuffing his bare feet in the sawdust on the wooden floor. “Says he’s mortal sorry, milord, but it’s still swole up.”
The man actually cracked a smile. “I ain’t, boy. You lookin’ for a job, you check by here regular. I get an opening, you got a place.”
Marco contrived to look grateful. “M-my thanks, milord,” he stammered, and slipped past him onto the floor of the tavern proper.
After that it was nothing but scurry and scramble and keep his head down so that nobody could see his i