“Come on,” said the man to the woman, all at once, “let’s go to the pub. A beer’ll do you good.”
The three started off together, the child hanging by the woman’s hand. I followed them with my eyes, for I could not imagine quite such a scene in America—not done just in this way. Women—a certain type—go to the back rooms of saloons well enough; children are sent with pails for beer; but just this particular combination of husband, wife, and child is rare, I am sure.
And such public houses! To satisfy myself of their character I went to three in three different neighborhoods. Like those I saw in London and elsewhere around it, they were pleasant enough in their arrangement, but gloomy. The light from the outside was meager, darkened as it was by smoke and rain. If you went on back into the general lounging-room, lights were immediately turned on, for otherwise it was not bright enough to see. If you stayed in the front at the bar proper it was still dark, and one light—a mantled gas-jet—was kept burning. I asked the second barmaid with whom I conferred about this:
“You don’t always have to keep a light burning here, do you?”
“Always, except two or three months in summer,” she replied. “Sometimes in July and August we don’t need it. As a rule we do.”
“Surely, it isn’t always dark and smoky like this?”
“You should see it sometimes, if you call this bad,” she replied contemptuously. “It’s black.”
“I should say it’s very near that now,” I commented.
“Oh, no, most of the mills are not running. You should see it when it’s foggy and the mills are running.”
She seemed to take a sort of pride in the matter and I sympathized with her. It is rather distinguished to live in an extreme of any kind, even if it is only that of a smoky wetness of climate. I went out, making my way to the “Kafe” Monico, as the policeman who recommended the place pronounced it. Here I enjoyed such a meal as only a third-rate restaurant which is considered first by the local inhabitants would supply.