Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky by Patrick Hamilton Page A

reproachfully.
    ‘Now then, gentlemen! Time , please!’
    But they did not hear that, either. He paced to the door, flung it back, fastened it back, and opened his lungs.
    ‘NOW then, gentlemen! TIME, please!’
    They had got that all right. He went to the tables in the bar, snapped up empty glasses, shoved his way through to the counter, and slammed them ferociously down.
    ‘TIME please, gentlemen! ALL OUT please!’
    And now a kind of panic and babel fell upon ‘The Midnight Bell.’ A searching draught swept in from the open door, and suddenly the Governor lowered all the lights save one abovethe bar. At this a few realized that the game was up, and left the place abruptly: others besieged Ella madly for last orders. Some of the groups dispersed with bawled farewells: others drew closer protectively, and argued the louder and more earnestly for the assault that was being made upon their happiness.
    ‘NOW then, gentlemen, please! LONG PAST TIME!’
    He rushed about the place, filling his fingers with empty glasses, and banging them down on the counter. He was, for the moment, a bully and a braggart. And his miserable, huddled victims knew it and resented it.
    But they knew also that they had to go. Suddenly one of the groups – a group of five men – broke up and filed out. It was instantly apparent that they had been responsible for the greater part of the din. There were not more than half a dozen left. A hush fell, and he had no further need to shout. His voice became quiet and full of expression.
    ‘Now then, gentlemen, please. It’s long past time, you know.’
    A minute later, and only three remained – two drunk gentlemen, and the blind drunk gentleman. The Public Bar round the corner was empty and in darkness. The two drunk gentlemen were talking drunkenly to Ella, and the blind drunk gentleman was talking drunkenly to the air. Bob went up to him.
    ‘This way out, sir.’
    ‘S’all righ’, wair,’ said the blind drunk gentleman. ‘S’allrigh’. Wonnarseyousuth!’
    ‘What’s that, sir?’
    ‘All ee sigh God? – Nod all ee sigh God?’
    ‘Sight of God, sir? Yes, sir, all equal sir. It’s time you made for home though, isn’t it, sir?’
    ‘Then why ,’ said the blind drunk gentleman, grasping Bob’s coat with one fist, and making his point with the other, ‘then why . . . then why . . . .’
    ‘Why what, sir?’
    ‘Wize everybody s’znobbish?’
    ‘Couldn’t say, sir. Way of the world, I suppose, sir. No sir – this way, sir.’
    ‘Z’damznobbish. . . . Z’damznobbish. . . . Z’damznobbish,’ murmured the blind drunk gentleman, and, so protesting, groped his staggering way into the night.
    He was followed by the two drunk gentlemen, who walked out with that too balanced strut peculiar to drunk gentlemen knowing themselves to be nothing of the sort.
    ‘Good night, waiter.’
    ‘Good night, sir. Good night.’
    He went out with them, and gazed again at the cool and temperate heavens.
    The blind drunk gentleman, lingering darkly, at once connected with the two drunk gentlemen, and a short conversation ensued. Unanimity was instant. Three crusaders against Snobbery, arm in arm and full of faith, staggered down towards the south side of Oxford Street, where drinks might yet be obtained and the world awaited conversion.
    He came in again. Ella, about to retire, was patting her hair for the last time in her little bottle-surrounded mirror. The one light feebly lit the bar, and the silence was that ultra-silence, at once sad, and terrifying, and beautiful, of a banquet ended, of people gone. They were both highly susceptible to it.
    He bolted the door. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘How’s everything?’
    ‘I’m surprised at you, Bob,’ said Ella, and went upstairs.

C HAPTER IX
    T HE LESS SPECTACULAR side of Bob’s employment revealed itself every morning. The Brass was his care, and by half-past eight he was up and rubbing. He also replaced an old with a new fire in the Lounge, but