"That will pay yer fer finishin' the bottle, an' never givin' me another sup." The other growled, evidently not in any too good humor after his mishap.
"You, hell! Yer bed the fu'st ov it.

Thar's no sorter luck yer don't git yer fair share of, Bill Haines--trust yer fer thet.

What I ain't got straight yet, is whar thet stuff cum from so easy.

Thet wus the real thing." Haines laughed again, working carelessly.

As the men advanced along the spar I could distinguish their forms more clearly.
"That wus part o' the luck, Tom," he acknowledged, his accent that of a cockney.