Childermass had grown up a pickpocket on the streets. He'd known what the other man was doing almost as soon as he'd done it, even if he had been good. Childermass could honestly say that he had barely felt a thing -- wouldn't almost say that he'd felt nothing if he hadn't known what to feel for in the first place. Too bad it's a trick that he's used more than a few times himself.

Well, almost used. He certainly hasn't ever given a man's wallet back once he's stolen it away. He raises his eyebrows, a muscle tensing in his jaw slightly, as if he'd honestly like to give the man a piece of his mind. But then he sees that it isn't his wallet that the man has stolen from within the pocket of his coat. It's his cards. And that puts an entirely different spin on things entirely.

"Forgive me, sir," Childermass growls out, in his usual, rough and drawling Yorkshire fashion. "But liberating valuables from where they'd been safely housed within my own pockets... I am not certain but that may be called thievery in some circles, is it not?"