“Oh, I don’t know about that,” George said a little crossly. Did she take him for a child? “I can look after myself all right.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Gladys returned, as if she didn’t believe him She set the plate before him, gave him a roll and butter and a pint of mild and bitter, and then hurried off to serve another customer.
George was quite content to keep in his corner, away from the main bar, and eat his supper, read the evening paper and watch Gladys cope with the bustling activity. The bar was filling up now, and the atmosphere became damp and steamy.
No one paid George any attention. Mr Henry came in and nodded absently to him, but immediately looked away, as if he were nervous that George would wish to join him. Other h abitués came in. They also nodded to George, but it was a disinterested greeting more from habit than anything else.
His meal finished, George lit a cigarette, pushed his tankard forward so that Gladys, when she had a moment, could see that he wanted it filled, and settled down to the crossword puzzle. The warm, damp atmosphere, the buzz of conversation, the click of billiard halls in the next room, soothed him. It was, he thought, the nicest, most homely atmosphere a man could wish to be in.
At nine-thirty he called for his last pint. One for the road, he told himself. He was pleasantly sleepy, and he looked forward to stretching out in bed. Perhaps Leo would keep him company. Tomorrow still seemed a long way off, and George decided that perhaps, after all, life wasn’t so had.
A hand reached out and touched his arm. George started, and peered at Sydney Brant, at first in blank surprise, then in embarrassed confusion. He felt blood rising to his face, and he nearly upset his beer.
Brant wore no overcoat; his threadbare jacket and worn trousers were black with rain.
“Hello,” George said awkwardly. “You gave me quite a start. What are you doing here?”
Brant leaned up against the counter.