Mrs Yabsley's stock ran out; the last served were forced to hold their
delicacy wrapped in a scrap of paper in their hands, the hot grease
sweating through the thin covering on to their fingers. The ladies
hesitated, fearful of being thought vulgar if they ate in their usual
manner; but Mrs Yabsley seeing their embarrassment, cried out that fingers
were made before forks, and bit a huge piece out of her pie.

Then the feast began in silence, except for the sound of chewing. Joey
had surpassed himself. The peas melted in your mouth, the piecrusts were
a marvel, and the saveloys were done to a turn. And they ate with solemn,
serious faces, for it was not every day the chance came to fill their
bellies with such dainties. Joey, with an eye to business, decided to
stay in the street on the chance of selling out, for the crowd had now
reached to the gutter. He rattled the shining lids of the hot cans from
time to time to attract attention as his cracked voice chanted his
familiar cry,

"Peas an' pies, all 'ot, all 'ot!"

And he drove a brisk trade among the uninvited guests, who paid for their
own. Inside, they drank the health of the married couple; but the dozen
of beer barely wet their throats. Jonah and Chook went to the "Woolpack"
with jugs, and the company settled down to the spree. At intervals the
men offered to shout for a few friends, and, borrowing a dead marine from
the heap of empty bottles, shuffled off to the hotel to get it filled.
The noise grew to an uproar--a babel of tongues, sudden explosions of
laughter, and the shuffling of feet.

Suddenly Mrs Yabsley looked at the clock.