“I can not tell.”
“In quod.”
“In jail. Why?”
“That’s hit. That’s number two of the twos. Pardon me, but I’m gettin’ a bit mixed. Well, it seems that that very night, comin’ back from Putney as drunk as a lord, old Foxey runs over a barrer. ’E an’ the coster ’as a fight. The police come, and Foxey dots one bobby in the blinkers and another on the boko. You wouldn’t think it was in ’im. ’E must ’ave bin paralytic.”
“So he was locked up?”
“Locked up! ’E was dragged there by the ’eels. Next mornin’ ’e comes before the beak. ‘We was all drunk together, your wurshup,’ ’e says. ‘I took a fare from the City to Sloane Square, an’ ’e left me for more’n an hour. ’E comes back excited like—bin boozin’ ’ard, I suppose—brings my keb up to a ’ouse, carries in a lydy who was that ’toxicated she couldn’t stand, an’ tells me to drive to Putney. We gits there, an’ I says ‘you’ve nearly killed my ’oss, guv’nor.’ With that ’e tips me a fiver—a five-pun note, your wurshup.’ ‘What has that got to do with the charge?’ says the beak. ‘Wot?’ says Foxey. ‘If a chap give you a fiver for drivin’ ’im to Putney wouldn’t you get drunk?’ With that the magistrate gives ’im three months for assaulting the police, and fines ’im the balance of the fiver for bein’ drunk in charge of a ’oss and keb.”
The ticket collector took a long drink after this recital.
“I hope you will not follow Foxey’s example,” said Bruce, rising.
“’Ow do you mean, sir?”
“Because I am going to keep my word. Here are the four sovereigns I owe you. In your case your two and two have made five.”