He said suddenly: "Gorblimy, yes I do! I know that chap dahn there. Excuse me, miss—"
He jostled away through the mob and squeezed unceremoniously into the booth, plonking his bottle down on the stained tabletop in front of him.
"Ullo, mite," he said cheerfully. "I know I've seen you before. Your nime's Patrick 'Ogan, ain't it?"
"Shure, Hogan's the name," said the other genially, giving him a square view of the unmistakable pug-nosed physiognomy which Simon had last seen impaled on the spotlight of Cookie's Cellar. "An' what's yours?"
"Tom Simons."
"I don't remember, but think of nothing of it. Where was it we met?"
"Murmansk, I think — durin' the war?"
"It's just as likely. Two weeks I've spent there on two trips, an' divil a night sober."
It appeared that Hogan found this a happy and satisfactory condition, for he had obviously taken some steps already towards inoculating himself against the evils of sobriety. His voice was a little slurred, and his breath was warmed with spicier fluids than passed over the counter of Cookie's Canteen.
"This 'ere's a bit of orl right, ain't it?" Simon said, indicating the general surroundings with a wave of his bottle.