“Fill them up, Bert, lad.” Charley Gowlan thumped hard with his pint pot and called for another round. Charley was not drunk, he was never really drunk, he became saturated like a sponge, he sweated and took on the pallid look of veal, but no one had ever seen him wholly soused. Some of the crowd about him were well lit-up, however — Tally Brown, old Reedy and Slogger Leeming in particular. The Slogger was quite wildly drunk. He was a rough lot, the Slogger, with a red, bashed-in face, a flat nose and one blue-white cauliflower ear. He had been a boxer in his youth, and had fought in the St. James’s Hall under the captivating title of the Pitboy Wonder; but drink and other things had burned him out; he was back once more in the pit — no longer a pitboy and no longer a wonder; with nothing to show for the prowess of those golden days but a hot good nature, a vicious left swing and the sadly battered face.
Always the unofficial toastmaster in the pub, Charley Gowlan rapped on the table again; he was displeased at the lack of levity in the company, he wanted the old cosy sociability of the Salutation to be re-established. He remarked:
“We’ve had to put up wi’ plenty in the last three months. Come on, lads, wor not downhearted. It’s a poor heart that niver rejoices.” His pig-like gaze beamed over the company, seeking the familiar lush approval. But they were all too sick and surly to approve. Instead he caught Robert Fenwick’s eye fixed sardonically upon his. Robert stood in his usual place, the far corner by the bar, drinking steadily, as though nothing held much interest for him now.
Gowlan raised his pot.
“Drink up, Robert, mon. Ye might as well get wet inside te-night. Ye’ll be wet enough outside te-morrow.”
Robert appeared to study Gowlan’s beery face with singular detachment. He said:
“We’ll all be wet enough some day.”
The company shouted:
“Shut up yer face, Robert.”
“Be quiet, mon. Ye had yer say at the meetin’.”
“We’ve heerd ower much about that these last three months.”
A film of sadness, of weariness came upon Robert’s face, he looked back at them with defeated eyes.
“All right, lads. Have it yer own way. I’ll say nowt more.”
Gowlan grinned slyly:
“If yer feared to go down the Paradise why doan’t ye say so?”
Slogger Leeming said:
“Shut up yer face, Gowlan. Yer nowt but a blatterin’ woman. Robert here’s my marrow. See! He hews fair an’ addles fair. He knows more about the bloddy pit than y’ know about yer own mickey.”
There was a silence while the crowd held its breath, hoping there might be a fight. But no, Charley never fought, he merely grinned beerily. The tension lapsed into disappointment.
Then the door swung open. Will Kinch came into the pub and elbowed his way uncertainly to the bar.
“Stand us a pint, Bert, for God’s sake, I feel I could do wi’ it.”
Interest reawakened, and was focused upon Will.
“How, then! what’s the matter with ye, Will?”
Will pushed the lank hair back from his brow, gripped the pot and faced them shakily.
“There’s plenty the matter wi’ me, lads.” He spat as though to cleanse his mouth of dirt. Then with a rush: “My Alice is badly, lads, she’s got the pneumonia. The missus wanted her to have a drop hough tea. I went down to Ramage’s a quarter hour since. Ramage hissel’ was standin’ there, ahint the counter, big fat belly an’ all. ‘Mister Ramage,’ I says perfectly civil, ‘will ye gie us a small end o’ hough for my little lass that’s badly an’ aw’ll pay ye pay-Saturday for certain.’” Here Will’s lips went pale; he began to tremble all over his body. But he clenched his teeth and forced himself to go on. “Weel, lads, he looked me up an’ down, then down an’ up. ‘I’ll give ye no hough,’ he says, jest like that. ‘Aw, come, Mister Ramage,’ I says upset like. ‘Spare us a little end piece, the lock-oot’s ower, pay-Saturday’s come a fortnight certain, I’ll pay ye then as God’s my maker.’” Pause. “He said nowt for a bit, lads, but jest gien me that look. Then he says, like he wer speakin’ to a dog, ‘I’ll give ye nothin’, not even a rib of bone. Yer a disgrace te the town, you an’ yer lot. Ye walk out on your work for nowt, then come cadgin’ to decent fowks for charity. Get out of my shop afore a have ye thrown out’.” Pause. “So aw jest got out, lads.”
Dead silence had come upon the company while Will spoke; and he finished in a mortal stillness. Bob Ogle moved first.
“By God!” he groaned. “That’s too much.”
Then Slogger jumped up, half-tight.
“It is too much,” he shouted, “we’ll not put up wi’t.”
Everybody started talking at once; an uproar. Slogger was on his feet, shouldering drunkenly through the crowd.
“I’ll not lie down under this, lads. I’ll see that bastard Ramage for mysel’. Come on, Will. Ye’ll have the best for the lass and not a measly end o’ hough.” He caught hold of Kinch affectionately and dragged him to the door. The others surged round, followed, supported them. The pub cleared in a minute. It was a miracle: no “time, gentlemen, please” had ever cleared that bar so quickly. Full one minute — empty the next. Robert alone waited, watching the astounded Amour with his sad, disillusioned eyes. He had another drink. But at last he went, too.
Outside, the crowd was swelled by a score of the younger men, the corner lads, the hangers on. They had no idea what it meant, but they scented excitement, trouble, a fight — since Slogger was laying his weight about. They marched in a body down Cowpen Street. Young Joe Gowlan shoved his way into the thick of it.
Round the corner they went and into Lamb Street, but when they got to Ramage’s a check awaited them. Ramage’s was shut. The big shop, closed for the night, was blank, unlit, presenting nothing but a cold iron-shuttered front and the name above: James Ramage — Flesher. Not even a window to smash!
Balked. Slogger let out a howl. The drink was in his blood; and his blood was up. He wasn’t done, no, by God, he wasn’t. There were other shops, here, next door to Ramage, shops without shutters, Bates, for instance, and Murchison, the licensed grocer’s, which had nothing but a plain bar and padlocked door.
Slogger let out another yell.
“We’re not beat, lads, we’ll take Murchison’s instead.” He made a run at the door, raised his heavy boot, smashed hard on the lock. At the same time somebody from the back of the crowd threw a brick. The brick shattered the window of the shop. That did it: the crash of the glass gave the signal to loot.
They swarmed round the door, beat it down, burst into the shop. Most of them were drunk and all of them had not seen proper food for weeks. Tally Brown seized a ham and shoved it under his arm; old Reedy grabbed at some tins of fruit; Slogger, his maudlin sympathy for Will Kinch’s Alice completely forgotten, knocked in the bung of a barrel of beer. Some women from the Quay, attracted by the noise, pressed in behind the men and began in a panic to snatch at anything: pickles, sauce, soap, it didn’t matter so long as it was something, they were too terrified to look, they simply snatched feverishly and thrust what they took below their shawls. The street lamp outside threw a cold clear light upon them.
It was Joe Gowlan who thought of the till, Joe had no use for the grub — like his dad he was too well fed — but Joe could use that till.