The barkeep frowns at Phillip - "no, no bets" - and gets up to serve Domonic. Meanwhile the young drunk at the next table awakens with a start and lurches to his feet. "Thassanuff! 'Sh time, time ferra t'ing!" He pats his pockets, pulls out a small drawstring pouch, drops it and stoops to pick it up again with a mumbled curse. He gives it a brief squeeze, as if checking its contents, then turns to head for the door.