"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle.
"Then," proceeded Scratcher, warming to his subject, "they often leaves somethin' in the bottles. Last night Ole Grandpa got so squiffy, 'e cried about 'is mother, 'e did."
"An' didn't it cost 'im anything?" enquired Ginger, who had been an interested listener.
"Not a copper," said Scratcher impressively, "not a brass farden."
"I wish this ruddy war was over," growled Ginger. "Four pound a week, and a free drunk. Blast the war! I say, I don't 'old wiv killin'."
"Then," continued Scratcher, "you can always get a bellyful. There's——"
"'Old 'ard, Scratcher," interrupted Bindle. "Wot place is it you're talkin' about?"
"Napolini's," replied Scratcher, looking at Bindle reproachfully.
"Go on, ole sport; it's all right," said Bindle resignedly. "I thought you might 'ave got mixed up with 'eaven."
"When you takes a stoo," continued Scratcher, "you can always pick out a bit o' meat with your fingers—if it ain't too 'ot," he added, as if not wishing to exaggerate. "An' when it's whitebait, you can pinch some when no one's lookin'. As for potatoes, you can 'ave all you can eat, and soup,—well, it's there."