"I don't do too bad."
"How much is that?"
"Ten quid a week."
"You know, you're quite a character, aren't you?" said the Saint. "There aren't many people who'd let Hoppy singe their tootsies for ten quid a week. How d'you work it out — a pound a toe?"
The man dragged jerkily at his cigarette without answering. The question was hardly answerable anyway — it was more of a gentle twitch at the driver's already overstrung nerves, a reminder of those unpleasant possibilities which were really so unthinkable.
"If I were you," said the Saint with an air of kindly interest, "I'd be looking for another job."
"Wot sort of job?"
"I think it'd be a kind of sideline," said the Saint meditatively. "I'd look round for some nice generous bloke who wouldn't let people toast my feet or anything like that but who'd just pay me an extra twenty quid a week for answering a few questions now and again. He might even put up fifty quid when I had anything special to tell him, and it wouldn't hurt me a bit."
"It's a waste of money, boss," said Mr Uniatz with conviction. "If de candles don't woik I got a new one I see in de movies de udder day. You mash de guy's shins wit' a hammer—"
"You won't pay too much attention to him, will you, Algernon?" said the Saint. "He gets a lot of these ideas, you know — it's the way he was brought up. It's not my idea of a spare-time job, though."