At the moment of William's entry the barman was busy, so the youngster edged his way in between the wall and the brawny back of a corduroyed transport-rider, intending to wait quietly until he could catch the barman's eye.
The place was thick with the fumes of strong drink and tobacco smoke—Boer tobacco smoke. Of all the unlovely habits which men acquire, that of smoking Boer tobacco is the most trying to other people. I know, because I used to smoke it once, and I have seen it empty an Underground railway carriage at every station.
But William did not smoke, neither did he drink strong drink; he merely wanted to have a talk to the man his brother fagged for. But, on reaching the bar, he unintentionally jogged the transport-rider's arm and spilt some of his liquor.
"Who the hell are you shovin'?"
"Sorry."
"Sorry, are you? Yer bloomin' tailor's model."
The barman's chief asset was a quick ear and a keen sense of rising trouble. He was at the end of the counter in a moment.
"Hullo, Bill. Upset Rogers' drink, have you? Well, both have a drink at my expense. This boy is a friend of mine, Rogers."
"Well, Jimmy, as he's a friend of yours I'll overlook the accident—and I will. Mine's a gin and tonic; what's the boy goin' to drink?"
Before William could explain that he didn't drink, the barman said: "I know his poison, don't I, Bill?" following this up with a heavy wink.