“I could do with a lot,” said Bealby.
“Ah yah! I didn’t mean that. I meant, ’ow much for some? ’Ow much will you pay for a nice, nice ’arf can of soup? I ain’t a darn charity. See?”
“Tuppence,” said Bealby.
The tramp shook his head slowly from side to side and took out the battered iron spoon he was using to stir the stuff and tasted the soup lusciously. It was—jolly good soup and there were potatoes in it.
“Thrippence,” said Bealby.
“’Ow much you got?” asked the tramp.
Bealby hesitated perceptibly. “Sixpence,” he said weakly.
“It’s sixpence,” said the tramp. “Pay up.”
“’Ow big a can?” asked Bealby.
The tramp felt about in the darkness behind him and produced an empty can with a jagged mouth that had once contained, the label witnessed—I quote, I do not justify—‘Deep Sea Salmon.’ “That,” he said, “and this chunk of bread.... Right enough?”