"Certainly," I said.
I always try to fall in with my friend's wishes, even when I don't approve of them. I may be wrong, but that is my idea of friendship.
George is a journalist with a strange craving for the interiors of taverns. He says they are such excellent places in which to study character. From the outsider's point of view studying character seems to be the chief part of journalism, and I should think few men worked harder at it than George does.
We pushed open a door marked "Saloon," and found ourselves in a narrow compartment just large enough to contain four people without inconvenience. One of the seats was already occupied by an amiable-looking wreck, who was fast asleep with his head on the counter. The public bar exactly opposite contained five or six navvies in various stages of intoxication, and the barman, a smart-looking man of about thirty-five, was attending to their wants.
"Seems a bit tired," remarked George, looking critically at our companion.
"Been studying too much character," I suggested.
George was just beginning a sarcastic reply when the barman came across to take our orders. We decided on two glasses of what I once heard a temperance lecturer describe as "hell-filling alcohol," and while the barman was getting them ready George entered into conversation with him.
"Who's our friend?" he inquired, indicating the recumbent reveller in the corner.
"Dunno 'is name," said the barman, snipping the wire off the Perrier. "Calls 'im Billy Borndrunk round 'ere, and 'e seems satisfied."
"Got a pretty tough lot opposite, haven't you?" I asked.