“The worst of it,” said Sam, as they walked slowly together to the town, “is the drinkin’. Arter I’ve ’ad five or six pints, everybody looks to me like Cap’n Gething.”
“We won’t ’ave no drinkin’,” said the cook. “We’ll do wot the feller did in that story. ’Ave you got sixpence about you?”
“Wot for?” inquired Sam carefully.
“Workin’ expenses,” replied the cook, dwelling fondly on the phrase.
“That’ll be thruppence each, then,” said Sam, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Sixpence each,” said the cook. “Now do you know what we’re goin’ to do?”
“Chuck money away,” hazarded Sam as he reluctantly drew a sixpence from his pocket and handed it to the cook. “Where’s your sixpence?”
The cook showed it to him, and Sam, whose faith in human nature had been largely shaken by a perusal of the detective story referred to, bit it critically.
“We can’t go into pubs without drinkin’ in the ordinary way,” said the cook, “so we’re goin’ in to sell bootlaces, like the chap in the book did. Now do you see?”
“Why not try something cheaper first?” growled Sam—“measurin’ footmarks, or over-’earing fellers talking? It’s just like you, cookie, doin’ expensive things.”