'What's become of Alf tonight?' inquired Philpot of the landlord whilst Easton and Bundy were playing. Alf was the barman.

''E's doing a bit of a job down in the cellar; some of the valves gone a bit wrong. But the missus is comin' down to lend me a hand presently. 'Ere she is now.'

The landlady--who at this moment entered through the door at the back of the bar--was a large woman with a highly-coloured countenance and a tremendous bust, incased in a black dress with a shot silk blouse. She had several jewelled gold rings on the fingers of each fat white hand, and a long gold watch guard hung round her fat neck. She greeted Cra.s.s and Philpot with condescension, smiling affably upon them.

Meantime the game of shove-ha'penny proceeded merrily, the Semi-drunk taking a great interest in it and tendering advice to both players impartially. Bundy was badly beaten, and then Easton suggested that it was time to think of going home. This proposal--slightly modified--met with general approval, the modification being suggested by Philpot, who insisted on standing one final round of drinks before they went.

While they were pouring this down their throats, Cra.s.s took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and put it in the slot of the polyphone. The landlord put a fresh disc into it and wound it up and it began to play 'The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.' The Semi-drunk happened to know the words of the chorus of this song, and when he heard the music he started unsteadily to his feet and with many fierce looks and gestures began to roar at the top of his voice:

'They may build their ships, my lads, And try to play the game, But they can't build the boys of the Bulldog breed, Wot made ole Hingland's--'

''Ere! Stop that, will yer?' cried the Old Dear, fiercely. 'I told you once before that I don't allow that sort of thing in my 'ouse!'

The Semi-drunk stopped in confusion.

'I don't mean no 'arm,' he said unsteadily, appealing to the company.

'I don't want no chin from you!' said the Old Dear with a ferocious scowl. 'If you want to make that row you can go somewheres else, and the sooner you goes the better. You've been 'ere long enough.'

This was true. The man had been there long enough to spend every penny he had been possessed of when he first came: he had no money left now, a fact that the observant and experienced landlord had divined some time ago. He therefore wished to get rid of the fellow before the drink affected him further and made him helplessly drunk. The Semi-drunk listened with indignation and wrath to the landlord's insulting words.

'I shall go when the b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell I like!' he shouted. 'I shan't ask you nor n.o.body else! Who the b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell are you? You're n.o.body! See?

n.o.body! It's orf the likes of me that you gets your b.l.o.o.d.y livin'! I shall stop 'ere as long as I b.l.o.o.d.y well like, and if you don't like it you can go to 'ell!'

'Oh! Yer will, will yer?' said the Old Dear. 'We'll soon see about that.' And, opening the door at the back of the bar, he roared out:

'Alf!'

'Yes, sir,' replied a voice, evidently from the bas.e.m.e.nt.

'Just come up 'ere.'

'All right,' replied the voice, and footsteps were heard ascending some stairs.

'You'll see some fun in a minute,' gleefully remarked Cra.s.s to Easton.

The polyphone continued to play 'The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.'

Philpot crossed over to the Semi-drunk. 'Look 'ere, old man,' he whispered, 'take my tip and go 'ome quietly. You'll only git the worse of it, you know.'

'Not me, mate,' replied the other, shaking his head doggedly. ''Ere I am, and 'ere I'm goin' to b.l.o.o.d.y well stop.'

'No, you ain't,' replied Philpot coaxingly. ''Look 'ere. I'll tell you wot we'll do. You 'ave just one more 'arf-pint along of me, and then we'll both go 'ome together. I'll see you safe 'ome.'

'See me safe 'ome! Wotcher mean?' indignantly demanded the other. 'Do you think I'm drunk or wot?'

'No. Certainly not,' replied Philpot, hastily. 'You're all right, as right as I am myself. But you know wot I mean. Let's go 'ome. You don't want to stop 'ere all night, do you?'

By this time Alf had arrived at the door of the back of the bar. He was a burly young man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age.

'Put it outside,' growled the landlord, indicating the culprit.

The barman instantly vaulted over the counter, and, having opened wide the door leading into the street, he turned to the half-drunken man and, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door, said:

'Are yer goin'?'

'I'm goin' to 'ave 'arf a pint along of this genelman first--'

'Yes. It's all right,' said Philpot to the landlord. 'Let's 'ave two 'arf-pints, and say no more about it.'

'You mind your own business,' shouted the landlord, turning savagely on him. ''E'll get no more 'ere! I don't want no drunken men in my 'ouse. Who asked you to interfere?'

'Now then!' exclaimed the barman to the cause of the trouble, 'Outside!'

'Not me!' said the Semi-drunk firmly. 'Not before I've 'ad my 'arf--'

But before he could conclude, the barman had clutched him by the collar, dragged him violently to the door and shot him into the middle of the road, where he fell in a heap almost under the wheels of a brewer's dray that happened to be pa.s.sing. This accomplished, Alf shut the door and retired behind the counter again.

'Serve 'im b.l.o.o.d.y well right,' said Cra.s.s.

'I couldn't 'elp laughin' when I seen 'im go flyin' through the b.l.o.o.d.y door,' said Bundy.

'You oughter 'ave more sense than to go interferin' like that,' said Cra.s.s to Philpot. 'It was nothing to do with you.'

Philpot made no reply. He was standing with his back to the others, peeping out into the street over the top of the window casing. Then he opened the door and went out into the street. Cra.s.s and the others--through the window--watched him a.s.sist the Semi-drunk to his feet and rub some of the dirt off his clothes, and presently after some argument they saw the two go away together arm in arm.

Cra.s.s and the others laughed, and returned to their half-finished drinks.

'Why, old Joe ain't drunk 'ardly 'arf of 'is!' cried Easton, seeing Philpot's porter on the counter. 'Fancy going away like that!'

'More fool 'im,' growled Cra.s.s. 'There was no need for it: the man's all right.'

The Besotted Wretch gulped his beer down as quickly as he could, with his eyes fixed greedily on Philpot's gla.s.s. He had just finished his own and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste the porter when Philpot unexpectedly reappeared.

'Hullo! What 'ave you done with 'im?' inquired Cra.s.s.

'I think 'e'll be all right,' replied Philpot. 'He wouldn't let me go no further with 'im: said if I didn't go away, 'e'd go for me! But I believe 'e'll be all right. I think the fall sobered 'im a bit.'

'Oh, 'e's all right,' said Cra.s.s offhandedly. 'There's nothing the matter with 'im.'

Philpot now drank his porter, and bidding 'good night' to the Old Dear, the landlady and the Besotted Wretch, they all set out for home. As they went along the dark and lonely thoroughfare that led over the hill to Windley, they heard from time to time the weird roaring of the wild animals in the menagerie that was encamped in the adjacent field. Just as they reached a very gloomy and deserted part, they suddenly observed a dark object in the middle of the road some distance in front of them.

It seemed to be a large animal of some kind and was coming slowly and stealthily towards them.

They stopped, peering in a half-frightened way through the darkness.

The animal continued to approach. Bundy stooped down to the ground, groping about in search of a stone, and--with the exception of Cra.s.s, who was too frightened to move--the others followed his example. They found several large stones and stood waiting for the creature--whatever it was--to come a little nearer so as to get a fair shot at it. They were about to let fly when the creature fell over on its side and moaned as if in pain. Observing this, the four men advanced cautiously towards it. Bundy struck a match and held it over the prostrate figure. It was the Semi-drunk.

After parting from Philpot, the poor wretch had managed to walk all right for some distance. As Philpot had remarked, the fall had to some extent sobered him; but he had not gone very far before the drink he had taken began to affect him again and he had fallen down. Finding it impossible to get up, he began crawling along on his hands and knees, unconscious of the fact that he was travelling in the wrong direction.

Even this mode of progression failed him at last, and he would probably have been run over if they had not found him. They raised him up, and Philpot, exhorting him to 'pull himself together' inquired where he lived. The man had sense enough left to be able to tell them his address, which was fortunately at Windley, where they all resided.