“Why can Mr Smallrice sing such high notes?”
Big James slowly shook his head, as Edwin looked up at him. “I tell you what it is, young sir. It’s a gift, that’s what it is, same as I can sing low.”
“But Mr Smallrice is very old, isn’t he?”
“There’s a parrot in a cage over at the Duck, there, as is eighty-five years old, and that’s proved by record kept, young sir.”
“No!” protested Edwin’s incredulity politely.
“By record kept,” said Big James.
“Do you often sing at the Dragon, Mr Yarlett?”
“Time was,” said Big James, “when some of us used to sing there every night, Sundays excepted, and concerts and whatnot excepted. Aye! For hours and hours every night. And still do sometimes.”
“After your work?”
“After our work. Aye! And often till dawn in summer. One o’clock, two o’clock, half-past two o’clock, every night. But now they say that this new Licensing Act will close every public-house in this town at eleven o’clock, and a straight-up eleven at that!”