The Stars Look Down by A. J. Cronin Read Free Book Online

hard with his pint pot and called for another round. Charley was not drunk, he was never really drunk, he became saturatedlike 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