We were strolling through the restful streets of Chelsea when we came suddenly upon a picturesque little tavern close to the Thames. It was half covered with ivy, and from the wooden balcony above, long trailing geraniums hung down and mingled with the dark green leaves. There was a weather-beaten signboard with a picture of a cunning-looking man in a cocked hat. It was called the "Lord Nelson."
"That's a quaint old place," said George carelessly.
"Very," I replied; "so picturesque."
"I wonder what it's like inside. Shall we have a look?"
"Certainly," I said.
I always try to fall in with my friend's wishes, even when I don't approve of them. I may be wrong, but that is my idea of friendship.
George is a journalist with a strange craving for the interiors of taverns. He says they are such excellent places in which to study character. From the outsider's point of view studying character seems to be the chief part of journalism, and I should think few men worked harder at it than George does.
We pushed open a door marked "Saloon," and found ourselves in a narrow compartment just large enough to contain four people without inconvenience. One of the seats was already occupied by an amiable-looking wreck, who was fast asleep with his head on the counter. The public bar exactly opposite contained five or six navvies in various stages of intoxication, and the barman, a smart-looking man of about thirty-five, was attending to their wants.
"Seems a bit tired," remarked George, looking critically at our companion.
"Been studying too much character," I suggested.
George was just beginning a sarcastic reply when the barman came across to take our orders. We decided on two glasses of what I once heard a temperance lecturer describe as "hell-filling alcohol," and while the barman was getting them ready George entered into conversation with him.
"Who's our friend?" he inquired, indicating the recumbent reveller in the corner.
"Dunno 'is name," said the barman, snipping the wire off the Perrier. "Calls 'im Billy Borndrunk round 'ere, and 'e seems satisfied."
"Got a pretty tough lot opposite, haven't you?" I asked.
The barman's face assumed an expression of intense disgust.
"Trash," he remarked. "They're mendin' the Embankment, and come along 'ere after work. They fair mop it, I can tell yer, and then they gits narsty. I'll 'ave to learn 'em something afore I'm done with 'em."
He was only five-foot-six, but he spoke with confidence, and I felt that it was no vain boasting.
"You know something about it, eh?"
He closed an eye and smiled scornfully. "Quite enough for any o' them to go on with."
Then he left us, for the gentlemen opposite were becoming clamorous for more liquor.
During the next few minutes we sat there in silence. George was evidently making a mental sketch of Billy Borndrunk, and with the sympathy of the true artist I refrained from interrupting him. I amused myself by idly scanning the various bottles which were piled up on shelves at the bade, together with a few packets of cheap cigarettes and some weary-looking ferns. This is a favourite pastime of mine when George insists on taking me into taverns. I like to speculate dreamily upon the various flavours. If one is not really fond of drink one can do this without feeling ashamed. It becomes a purely intellectual pursuit.
Suddenly I was aware of a disturbance in the opposite bar. A dialogue was in progress between my friend the barman and a gigantic navvy, proportionately inebriated.
"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf, an' not ser much jaw," demanded the latter.
"Yer won't get no more 'ere," replied the barman coldly. "Yer drunk as it is. Go 'ome to bed."
"Oo-oose drunk?" inquired the navvy indignantly.
"You are," said the barman, "beastly."
Then civilization slipped off the navvy like a discarded cloak.
"I'm drunk, am I!" he roared. "Tike that!" His fist shot out, and, landing somewhere in the neighbourhood of the barman's right eye, drove that gentleman across the bar with such velocity that he struck the counter close to us with considerable force.
"That's for yer cheek," observed the navvy in the voice of one whose honour has been satisfied.
The remaining customers, with the honourable exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose hastily to their feet, and a chorus of criticism filled the tavern. "Serve 'im right!" "Shut yer 'ead!" "Don't be a fool, Bill!" "Hit him back!" This last from George.
I remembered the barman's boast, and was silent in pleasant expectation.
To my intense disappointment, however, the blow seemed to have cowed him. He pulled himself together and slowly retraced his steps, holding his hand up to his face.
"You 'adn't no call to 'it me like that," he began reproachfully. "What's your order?"
"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf; and when I comes in 'ere again, per'aps ye'll be a bit more perlite—see?"
The navvy leaned across the counter and grinned derisively.
He never grinned again—at least, not under similar circumstances. With amazing swiftness the barman whipped out a large pewter pot from under the counter and struck him a swinging blow across the face, sending him to the floor with a thud that shook the building.
"That's for your cheek," he remarked.
Then he coolly picked up the cloth and began to polish the tankard. "That's the worst o' them dirty faces," he observed. "Spoils the silver."
An awe-struck silence fell upon us all, while the navvy rose up slowly with the brand of can upon his cheek. I do not know how to spell the words, or I would tell you what he said. When he had done the barman eyed him critically.
"I ain't got much time to spare for pleasure," he replied, "but if yer likes to step round to the yard be'ind, we'll give that there mark a bit o' company."
The navvy's eyes glistened, and the whole tavern, with the exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose joyously to the suggestion.
The barman walked to the side door and called his wife.
"Annie," he said, "just look after the bar while I show these gen'lemen our backyard."
We all trooped out, leaving Billy Borndrunk in sole possession. It seemed a shame that he should miss the fight, but it would have taken some hours to wake him up, and by that time everything would have been over.
Outside we were joined by two or three stray inhabitants of Chelsea, who had been busily engaged in their usual strenuous work of leaning over the railings and spitting in the Thames. Scenting a welcome diversion, they lounged up and listened with philosophic calm to the navvy's lurid descriptions of how he was about to operate upon his opponent.
Then there was a sound of bolts being withdrawn, and the barman opened the gate that led into the yard. It was quite small, paved with cobbles, and surrounded by high brick walls: scarcely the place that I should have selected for a fight unless I felt very certain that I was going to win. The barman closed the gate, and we all ranged ourselves round the walls, while he and the navvy removed their superfluous clothing and took up their positions in opposite corners. George, who is a bit of a sportsman, volunteered to act as timekeeper.
There was a moment of almost breathless silence and then he gave the word:
"Time!"
The barman took three quick steps forward, and planted himself firmly in the centre of the ring. In another second the navvy was upon him—head down and hitting like a flail. There was a gorgeous whirl of arms, a couple of sharp smacking blows, and the navvy suddenly sat down with his hand to his eye, while the little man danced away apparently uninjured.
Two or three of the fallen warrior's companions advanced and set him upon his feet. "Go fur 'is wind, Bill," suggested one. "Stand orf an' fight 'im clever," added another. "Close wiv 'im," said a third.
The navvy drew the back of his hand across his face and shoved them roughly aside. "I'll kill 'im afore I done with 'im," he muttered.
His friends retreated to the wall, and the two men faced each other again. This time it was the barman's turn to attack. Without a moment's hesitation he waltzed in, and, ducking a terrific swing, landed a straight left on his opponent's nose that brought a roar of mingled anguish and fury from its owner's lips. Whether it was the pain, or whether the blood of some forgotten French ancestor was stirring in his veins, I cannot say, but the navvy now threw aside all pretensions to following the rules of the ring, and, rushing forward kicked at his enemy with all the force of which he was capable. My heart seemed to jump into my mouth for I felt certain that the barman's hour had come. The navvy's boot looked as if it were capable of opening the door for any soul in England.
With a brilliant effort, however, the barman leaped on one side, and, using his right hand for the first time in the fight, smote the navvy a deadly blow across his disfigured countenance that stretched him upon the yard and abruptly terminated the struggle.
George counted him out with all the dignity of a professional timekeeper, but he made no effort to rise, for the barman stood over him, waiting to rebuke him for his attempted treachery. Then he began to roll about as though in great pain.
"Brandy!" he moaned feebly. "Gimme some brandy!"
The barman walked across the yard and picked up a huge bucket of clean water. He had evidently guessed the navvy's weak point, for the latter rose quickly, if somewhat unsteadily, to his feet, with the expression of a man who has narrowly escaped some strange and horrible danger. He staggered slowly to the gate, and then, turning round, addressed his late opponent in a voice of dignified rebuke.
"Thash 'ow you lose cushtom. I shan't come 'ere no more.”