When Hunter had gone, Crass drew out his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. A little way down the road the lights of a public house were gleaming through the mist.
“We shall be just in time to get a drink before closing time if we buck up,” he said. And with this object they hurried on as fast as they could.
When they reached the tavern they left the cart standing by the kerb, and went inside, where Crass ordered two pints of four-ale, which he permitted Sawkins to pay for.
“How are we going on about this job?” inquired the latter after they had each taken a long drink, for they were thirsty after their exertions. ‘I reckon we ought to ’ave more than a bob for it, don’t you? It’s not like a ordinary ‘lift in’.”
“Of course it ain’t,” replied Crass. “We ought to ’ave about, say”—reflecting—“say arf a dollar each at the very least.”
“Little enough too,” said Sawkins. “I was going to say arf a crown, myself.”
Crass agreed that even half a crown would not be too much.
“’Ow are we goin’ on about chargin’ it on our time sheets?” asked Sawkins, after a pause. “If we just put a ‘lift in’, they might only pay us a bob as usual.”
As a rule when they had taken a coffin home, they wrote on their time sheets, “One lift in”, for which they were usually paid one shilling, unless it happened to be a very high-class funeral, when they sometimes got one and sixpence. They were never paid by the hour for these jobs.
Crass smoked reflectively.