place called Tipperary, but suddenly all the singing and chatting in the place stopped. Because someone yanked the door open, its hinges moaning
loudly, and slammed it shut again.
A tiny little guy wearing a tweed coat and a— well, as we already determined—very stupid-looking deerstalker hat stood there in the doorway. He took a tobacco pipe out of his mouth,
marched over to the bar, climbed up onto one of the towering bar stools, and gave the bartender a stern look.
“My good man, give me the strongest soda you have.”
The bartender kept polishing the glass, which already looked very clean. “The strongest, sir?”
“Don’t you understand English?” Nilly said, taking off his hat and setting it on the bar. “I don’t want the normal watery swill, I need something that will pick me
up. Something that will bubble in my nose and scratch up my throat so it feels like I poured an anthill down there. On the rocks, no seltzer.”
“Um, you could have a cola with ice and a slice of lemon?” the bartender suggested.
“Great. But make it a double,” Nilly replied.
“A double, sir?”
“TWO slices of lemon, you party pooper!” Nilly said, spinning around on his stool and taking a closer look at the pub and its clientele, who were still staring at him. Then, loudly
enough for everyone to hear, he said, “And don’t even try giving me Diet Coke, or I’ll shoot your party-pooper head right off your body, understand?”
The bartender filled a glass and set it in front of Nilly, who grabbed it, tilted his head back, opened wide, drained it in one go, and slammed the empty glass back down on the bar.
“Hit me again,” Nilly groaned, pointing at the glass, his eyes bulging and his voice sounding oddly choked up from the carbonation.
The bartender filled it again, and Nilly tossed it right back.
A man in a hat that said millwall on it had walked up to the bar and taken a seat next to Nilly.
“You play hard, stranger,” the man said in a whiskey voice.
“Hard is the only way I play,” Nilly said, looking at the reflection of the man’s face in the mirror behind the shelves with the bottles on them.
“What are you doing here? You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the man said.
“Rumor has it that this is where the best dart players this side of the Thames can be found,” Nilly said with a shrug.
“And so what if that is the case?”
“I’m the best dart player from the
other
side of the Thames,” Nilly said, snatching a toothpick and starting to chew on it. “I’m looking to challenge
him.”
The man in front of him laughed briefly. “You? You’re so small. How good a shot can you be?”
Nilly spit the toothpick into his empty cola glass. “Care to find out?”
“No thanks, little guy,” the man said, and pulled off his cap. “Charlie Crunch don’t steal chump change from pipsqueaks.”
Nilly stared at the man’s shaved head, the unibrow, the letter
C
tattooed on his forehead. “Let me guess. You’re Charlie Crunch.”
“Maybe.”
“And what if I say I have fifty pounds with a picture of the queen on it in my pocket?” Nilly asked.
The boy and the man eyed each other. And without looking so much as a millimeter away, Nilly plucked a peanut out of the dish on the counter, tossed it up in the air, tilted his head back quick
as lightning, and flipped his mouth open so wide that his jaws creaked. The peanut reached its peak and started coming down again. Nilly crossed his bulging eyes, following the peanut’s
progress. Everyone else in the place crossed their eyes too. They were all staring at that peanut as it fell and fell and fell. All the way down until it hit the tip of Nilly’s little
upturned nose and bounced off.
“Ha!” Nilly cried, straightening back up again. “Did you see that? Bull’s-eye every time!” He pointed triumphantly to the tip of his nose.
An astonished murmur spread through the pub.
“Let’s see your money, little
loudly, and slammed it shut again.
A tiny little guy wearing a tweed coat and a— well, as we already determined—very stupid-looking deerstalker hat stood there in the doorway. He took a tobacco pipe out of his mouth,
marched over to the bar, climbed up onto one of the towering bar stools, and gave the bartender a stern look.
“My good man, give me the strongest soda you have.”
The bartender kept polishing the glass, which already looked very clean. “The strongest, sir?”
“Don’t you understand English?” Nilly said, taking off his hat and setting it on the bar. “I don’t want the normal watery swill, I need something that will pick me
up. Something that will bubble in my nose and scratch up my throat so it feels like I poured an anthill down there. On the rocks, no seltzer.”
“Um, you could have a cola with ice and a slice of lemon?” the bartender suggested.
“Great. But make it a double,” Nilly replied.
“A double, sir?”
“TWO slices of lemon, you party pooper!” Nilly said, spinning around on his stool and taking a closer look at the pub and its clientele, who were still staring at him. Then, loudly
enough for everyone to hear, he said, “And don’t even try giving me Diet Coke, or I’ll shoot your party-pooper head right off your body, understand?”
The bartender filled a glass and set it in front of Nilly, who grabbed it, tilted his head back, opened wide, drained it in one go, and slammed the empty glass back down on the bar.
“Hit me again,” Nilly groaned, pointing at the glass, his eyes bulging and his voice sounding oddly choked up from the carbonation.
The bartender filled it again, and Nilly tossed it right back.
A man in a hat that said millwall on it had walked up to the bar and taken a seat next to Nilly.
“You play hard, stranger,” the man said in a whiskey voice.
“Hard is the only way I play,” Nilly said, looking at the reflection of the man’s face in the mirror behind the shelves with the bottles on them.
“What are you doing here? You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the man said.
“Rumor has it that this is where the best dart players this side of the Thames can be found,” Nilly said with a shrug.
“And so what if that is the case?”
“I’m the best dart player from the
other
side of the Thames,” Nilly said, snatching a toothpick and starting to chew on it. “I’m looking to challenge
him.”
The man in front of him laughed briefly. “You? You’re so small. How good a shot can you be?”
Nilly spit the toothpick into his empty cola glass. “Care to find out?”
“No thanks, little guy,” the man said, and pulled off his cap. “Charlie Crunch don’t steal chump change from pipsqueaks.”
Nilly stared at the man’s shaved head, the unibrow, the letter
C
tattooed on his forehead. “Let me guess. You’re Charlie Crunch.”
“Maybe.”
“And what if I say I have fifty pounds with a picture of the queen on it in my pocket?” Nilly asked.
The boy and the man eyed each other. And without looking so much as a millimeter away, Nilly plucked a peanut out of the dish on the counter, tossed it up in the air, tilted his head back quick
as lightning, and flipped his mouth open so wide that his jaws creaked. The peanut reached its peak and started coming down again. Nilly crossed his bulging eyes, following the peanut’s
progress. Everyone else in the place crossed their eyes too. They were all staring at that peanut as it fell and fell and fell. All the way down until it hit the tip of Nilly’s little
upturned nose and bounced off.
“Ha!” Nilly cried, straightening back up again. “Did you see that? Bull’s-eye every time!” He pointed triumphantly to the tip of his nose.
An astonished murmur spread through the pub.
“Let’s see your money, little
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