"Strike me balmy if I do!"
"Where'll yer go then?"
"Round the corner, of course," was the answer. "There's another bird there—and cawfee! It's some stuff too, not like 'ere."
"All right; don't come in again if yer don't want ter."
The Cockney got his second cup of coffee and pronounced it inferior to the first; then looked at an evening paper which Oxford handed to him, and studied a photograph of a battleship on the front page.
"Can't stand these 'ere papers," he said, after a moment, as he got to his feet and lit a cigarette. "Nuffink but war in them always; I'm sick readin' about war! I saw your bit in one a couple of nights ago," he said, turning to me.
"What did you think of it?" I asked, anxious to hear his opinion on an article dealing with the life of his own regiment.
"Nuffink much," he answered, honestly and frankly. "Everything you say is about things we all know; who wants to 'ear about them? D'ye get paid for writin' that?"
One of his mates, a youth named Bill, who came in at that moment, overheard the remark.
"Paid! Of course 'e gets paid," said the newcomer. "Bet you he gets 'arf a crown for every time 'e writes for the paper."