"There's twenty-one sovereigns there!" remarked Steelman casually.

"Yes?"

"Ten of 'em's yours."

"Thank yer, Steely."

"And," added Steelman, solemnly and grimly, "if you get taken down for 'em,
or lose 'em out of the top-hole in your pocket, or spend so much as a shilling
in riotous living, I'll stoush you, Smith."

Smith didn't seem interested. They sat on the beds opposite each other
for two or three minutes, in something of the atmosphere that pervades things
when conversation has petered out and the dinner-bell is expected to ring.
Smith screwed his face and squeezed a pimple on his throat;
Steelman absently counted the flies on the wall. Presently Steelman,
with a yawning sigh, lay back on the pillow with his hands clasped
under his head.

"Better take a few quid, Smith, and get that suit you were looking at
the other day. Get a couple of shirts and collars, and some socks;
better get a hat while you're at it -- yours is a disgrace to your benefactor.
And, I say, go to a chemist and get some cough stuff
for that churchyarder of yours -- we've got no use for it just now,
and it makes me sentimental. I'll give you a cough when you want one.
Bring me a syphon of soda, some fruit, and a tract."

"A what?"