"Oo-oose drunk?" inquired the navvy indignantly.
"You are," said the barman, "beastly."
Then civilization slipped off the navvy like a discarded cloak.
"I'm drunk, am I!" he roared. "Tike that!" His fist shot out, and, landing somewhere in the neighbourhood of the barman's right eye, drove that gentleman across the bar with such velocity that he struck the counter close to us with considerable force.
"That's for yer cheek," observed the navvy in the voice of one whose honour has been satisfied.
The remaining customers, with the honourable exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose hastily to their feet, and a chorus of criticism filled the tavern. "Serve 'im right!" "Shut yer 'ead!" "Don't be a fool, Bill!" "Hit him back!" This last from George.
I remembered the barman's boast, and was silent in pleasant expectation.
To my intense disappointment, however, the blow seemed to have cowed him. He pulled himself together and slowly retraced his steps, holding his hand up to his face.
"You 'adn't no call to 'it me like that," he began reproachfully. "What's your order?"
"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf; and when I comes in 'ere again, per'aps ye'll be a bit more perlite—see?"