Out in the street, the rain was cold on his face and the wind beat against him. As he hurried along, he felt the urge to sing or shout for no reason at all except that driving rain and a boisterous wind gave him a feeling of freedom.
The saloon bar of the King’s Arms was almost deserted. It was early yet—not quite a quarter to seven—and only three of the usual habitués had braved the weather. George hung up his hat and mack, and went to his favourite corner.
“Hello,” Gladys said, smiling. “’Ere we are again.”
“That’s right,” George said, sitting on a stool and looking at the cold meats, pickles and howls of salad and beetroot with a hungry eye. “Nasty night, isn’t it?”
“Wretched,” Gladys agreed. “I’ve got some nice cold pork if you fancy it, or some beef.”
George said he thought he’d try the pork.
“That was the bloke with the scar you were talking about, wasn’t it?” he asked as she cut him a liberal helping.
“That’s ’im,” Gladys said darkly. “I was sorry to see you going off with ’in. Mark my words, ’e’s a had ’un. I know a had ’un when I see ’im.”
“He’s working for Robinson,” George said, feeling that he should excuse himself. “Can’t say I like him myself.”
“I should think not indeed,” Gladys said firmly. “You watch out. A fellow like that could get you into trouble quicker than wink “