"'Ear, 'ear," said Bill sleepily.
"Chuck it!" commented Sam unsympathetically, regarding the hands of the orator. "You a workin'-man! You ain't never done a day's work in yer life, unless you calls work pickin' pockets at the races. I don't want no Socialism—an' I don't want no war, neither. I wants to get back to my missus an' the kids an' a regular job."
"'Ear, 'ear," said Bill. "Wot price the Ole Kent Road on a Saturday night, Sam?"
"That's wot I was thinkin'. Is to-night Saturday, Bill?"
"Cursed if I know," was the reply. "I've lost count."
Sam sat gloomily looking into the fire. In his brain was a vision of the great thoroughfare, lined with naphtha flares, thronged with people who clustered about the stalls, here and there the blaze of lights upon the white-and-gold façade of a picture-palace, the yellowish radiance of a public-house. He visualised it now, distant from it, as the rustic looks back to his village, sentimentally. There the incidents, commonplace enough, sordid even, which had made his life something individual to himself, had linked themselves one by one.
"Bill," he said huskily, "if I saw those blank foreigners marchin' up the Ole Kent Road, I'd go for 'em—if there wasn't a man to 'elp me."
"'Ear, 'ear!" said Bill. "So would I."
"I've got a bit o' skirt meself wot lives just off the Ole Kent Road," said the third man in a tone of reminiscence. "Let's 'ave some more beer. I say," he remarked suddenly, having refilled his mug, "if the army comes back it'll be a fair cop for us, won't it?"
"I ain't goin' back," said Sam sturdily, still gazing into the fire. "I'm fed up—and w'en I'm fed up I'm fed up."