Are you going far, queer fellow?
How’s your middle leg?
Got a match on you?
Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.
_(He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. From
a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.
In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two
redcoats.)_
THE NAVVY: _(Belching.)_ Where’s the bloody house?
THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout.
Respectable woman.
THE NAVVY: _(Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them.)_
Come on, you British army!
PRIVATE CARR: _(Behind his back.)_ He aint half balmy.
PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Laughs.)_ What ho!
PRIVATE CARR: _(To the navvy.)_ Portobello barracks canteen. You ask
for Carr. Just Carr.