“Oh! Yer will, will yer?” said the Old Dear. “We’ll soon see about that.” And, opening the door at the back of the bar, he roared out:
“Alf!”
“Yes, sir,” replied a voice, evidently from the basement.
“Just come up ’ere.”
“All right,” replied the voice, and footsteps were heard ascending some stairs.
“You’ll see some fun in a minute,” gleefully remarked Crass to Easton.
The polyphone continued to play “The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.”
Philpot crossed over to the Semi-drunk. “Look ’ere, old man,” he whispered, “take my tip and go ’ome quietly. You’ll only git the worse of it, you know.”
“Not me, mate,” replied the other, shaking his head doggedly. “’Ere I am, and ’ere I’m goin’ to bloody well stop.”
“No, you ain’t,” replied Philpot coaxingly. “Look ’ere. I’ll tell you wot we’ll do. You ’ave just one more ’arf-pint along of me, and then we’ll both go ’ome together. I’ll see you safe ’ome.”