The publican poured out some brandy for himself, and immediately bawled: "Eighteen drinks, painter; hand us over the stiff."
"Here you are," said the painter, putting a sovereign into the publican's hand; at the same time trying to look pleased, but his mouth wouldn't go into the right position. The drawing was all wrong.
"Eighteen drinks, eighteen shillin's," said the publican.
"'Old 'ard," said the painter; "look at your own placard—sixpence each, if you please. I figur' it at nine shillin's, accordin' to Cocker."
"Placard be blowed!" said the publican; "everybody knows that, in legal dociments, the day begins at twelve o'clock. The price of drinks before twelve is a shillin', after twelve they is sixpence. Here's two shillin's change, painter!"
"All right!" said the painter in a whisper, and with a cunning wink to the constable, "Hark you, I'll be even with him! I'll charge him nine shillin's extra in my bill for turpentine and putty."
"The Crowner is sittin', the jury is summoned! Quick; every mother's son av yees!" said the constable.
The inquest was soon over. The local doctor had made a post mortem examination. The verdict of the jury was, "Died from natural causes."
The clock in the bar cuckooed eleven times. Drinks were still a shilling each, so no one would venture his nose within smell of liquor for an hour at least. The jury preferred a draught of fresh air just now, as the room in which they had sat was close and stuffy. Their courage had been uncorked and spilt in the presence of the "corp," and they felt as limp as a wet rag.