“Not me!” said the Semi-drunk firmly. “Not before I’ve ’ad my ’arf—”
But before he could conclude, the barman had clutched him by the collar, dragged him violently to the door and shot him into the middle of the road, where he fell in a heap almost under the wheels of a brewer’s dray that happened to be passing. This accomplished, Alf shut the door and retired behind the counter again.
“Serve ’im bloody well right,” said Crass.
“I couldn’t ’elp laughin’ when I seen ’im go flyin’ through the bloody door,” said Bundy.
“You oughter ’ave more sense than to go interferin’ like that,” said Crass to Philpot. “It was nothing to do with you.”
Philpot made no reply. He was standing with his back to the others, peeping out into the street over the top of the window casing. Then he opened the door and went out into the street. Crass and the others—through the window—watched him assist the Semi-drunk to his feet and rub some of the dirt off his clothes, and presently after some argument they saw the two go away together arm in arm.
Crass and the others laughed, and returned to their half-finished drinks.
“Why, old Joe ain’t drunk ’ardly ’arf of ’is!” cried Easton, seeing Philpot’s porter on the counter. “Fancy going away like that!”
“More fool ’im,” growled Crass. “There was no need for it: the man’s all right.”
The Besotted Wretch gulped his beer down as quickly as he could, with his eyes fixed greedily on Philpot’s glass. He had just finished his own and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste the porter when Philpot unexpectedly reappeared.