The Soldiers’ Arms, in common with many public houses in the city, has been built to accommodate as many drinkers as possible, and what comforts there are exist to encourage the patrons to linger, and to socialize if they will, while not getting in the way of the serious business of imbibing alcoholic beverages. The floor is of broad wooden boards, at least, which is an improvement on some of the compacted earth and flagstones favored in other establishments. A scattering of fresh sawdust upon the floorboards suggests some small effort has been made toward cleanliness, though it will soon be crushed beneath so many wet and dirty boots as to render it ineffectual. Against the far wall there is a high bar, polished by the sleeves of the faithful over years. Gleaming pewter tankards, stout china pots, and chunky glasses are lined up on the shelves behind it. There are casks of ale, flagons of cider, and bottles of harsh red wine on display. On an upper shelf sit gin, rum, brandy, and whiskey. There are twists of tobacco for sale, as well as a humble but serviceable snuff. It is a quiet hour, so that the space is not uncomfortably crowded, and the voices of those present create a low mumbling, rather than the raucous shouts and laughter that might be heard in the evenings.

Bram leads his guests over to the wide fireplace and sees them seated on the shabby but inviting settle, with its treacly black wood and faded tapestry cushions. He goes to the bar with Perry and whispers urgently in his ear.

“Have you any money on you?”

“My dear fellow,” Perry looks stricken, “I assumed you were in funds.”

“Why would you think that? I haven’t sold a painting since I arrived and I’ve used up nearly all the money I brought with me. I gave Jane two pounds for housekeeping only yesterday.” Bram narrows his eyes at Perry’s expensive coat. “Have you no savings at all? Nothing, perhaps, sent from home?”

“My parents, alas, do not approve of my chosen path in life. They will not support me in it. I make what I can from selling my sketches, but lately I have been so busy helping Mangan I’ve produced precious little work of my own. And now he is ill, well, it is difficult to paint, sculpt, or even draw when the house is in such uproar.”

Bram cannot argue with this. And he knows only too well how hard it is to scrape a living together. He digs deep in his pockets. Perry does the same. Their search yields the royal sum of three shillings and sixpence.

“Well,” Bram does a quick calculation, “we can afford one brandy for each of us here, and a small bottle to take home to Mangan.”