Trosher was rat-arsed, all right. Four pints in five minutes, as the saying goes. He reeled out of the pub looking right queer, his face all bishy.
“Oi!” he yelled, walloping me on the back. “Hold yer hard, bor!”
“Gettin’ on me wick, Trosh,” I said, moving away.
He stopped and held up a finger, then slowly turned out his pockets. A collection of coins spilled onto the cobbles, rolling away as he tried to stomp them.
He looked up and give me a watery smile. “You can keep anything you collect, bor. Enough to stand you a pint, at least.”
He walked over to the wall and sank down, legs asprawl as he sat. His chin dropped to his chest and he started to snore.
“Bloodly berk,” I muttered, and tried and heave him up by the wrist.
Down the street I saw a pair of constables walking towards us.