The barman's face assumed an expression of intense disgust.
"Trash," he remarked. "They're mendin' the Embankment, and come along 'ere after work. They fair mop it, I can tell yer, and then they gits narsty. I'll 'ave to learn 'em something afore I'm done with 'em."
He was only five-foot-six, but he spoke with confidence, and I felt that it was no vain boasting.
"You know something about it, eh?"
He closed an eye and smiled scornfully. "Quite enough for any o' them to go on with."
Then he left us, for the gentlemen opposite were becoming clamorous for more liquor.
During the next few minutes we sat there in silence. George was evidently making a mental sketch of Billy Borndrunk, and with the sympathy of the true artist I refrained from interrupting him. I amused myself by idly scanning the various bottles which were piled up on shelves at the bade, together with a few packets of cheap cigarettes and some weary-looking ferns. This is a favourite pastime of mine when George insists on taking me into taverns. I like to speculate dreamily upon the various flavours. If one is not really fond of drink one can do this without feeling ashamed. It becomes a purely intellectual pursuit.
Suddenly I was aware of a disturbance in the opposite bar. A dialogue was in progress between my friend the barman and a gigantic navvy, proportionately inebriated.
"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf, an' not ser much jaw," demanded the latter.
"Yer won't get no more 'ere," replied the barman coldly. "Yer drunk as it is. Go 'ome to bed."