My fust idea was to go arter ’im, but I knew I couldn’t catch ’im, and if I tried to meet ’im coming back I should most likely miss ’im through the side streets. So I sat there with my pipe and waited.
I suppose I ’ad been sitting down waiting for him for about ten minutes, when a couple o’ sailormen came into the bar and began to make themselves a nuisance. Big fat chaps they was, and both of ’em more than ’arf sprung. And arter calling for a pint apiece they began to take a little notice of me.
“Where d’you come from?” ses one of ’em. “’Ome,” I ses, very quiet.
“It’s a good place—’ome,” ses the chap, shaking his ’ead. “Can you sing ‘’Ome, Sweet ’Ome’? You seem to ’ave got wot I might call a ‘singing face.’”
“Never mind about my face,” I ses, very sharp. “You mind wot you’re doing with that beer. You’ll ’ave it over in a minute.”
The words was ’ardly out of my mouth afore ’e gave a lurch and spilt his pint all over me. From ’ead to foot I was dripping with beer, and I was in such a temper I wonder I didn’t murder ’im; but afore I could move they both pulled out their pocket-’ankerchers and started to rub me down.
“That’ll do,” I ses at last, arter they ’ad walked round me ’arf-a-dozen times and patted me all over to see if I was dry. “You get off while you’re safe.”
“It was my mistake, mate,” ses the chap who ’ad spilt the beer.
“You get outside,” I ses. “Go on, both of you, afore I put you out.”
They gave one look at me, standing there with my fists clenched, and then they went out like lambs, and I ’eard ’em trot round the corner as though they was afraid I was following. I felt a little bit damp and chilly, but beer is like sea-water—you don’t catch cold through it—and I sat down agin to wait for George Tebb.