"Are you going to sing to-night at the Dragon, Mr Yarlett?" asked
Edwin. He lengthened his step to Big James's, controlled his ardent
body, and tried to remember that he was a man with a man.
"I am, young sir," said Big James. "There is a party of us."
"Is it the Male Glee Party?" Edwin pursued.
"Yes, Mr Edwin."
"Then Mr Smallrice will be there?"
"He will, Mr Edwin."
"Why can Mr Smallrice sing such high notes?"
Big James slowly shook his head, as Edwin looked up at him. "I tell you
what it is, young sir. It's a gift, that's what it is, same as I can
sing low."
"But Mr Smallrice is very old, isn't he?"
"There's a parrot in a cage over at the Duck, there, as is eighty-five
years old, and that's proved by record kept, young sir."
"No!" protested Edwin's incredulity politely.
"By record kept," said Big James.
"Do you often sing at the Dragon, Mr Yarlett?"
"Time was," said Big James, "when some of us used to sing there every
night, Sundays excepted, and concerts and whatnot excepted. Aye! For
hours and hours every night. And still do sometimes."
"After your work?"
"After our work. Aye! And often till dawn in summer. One o'clock, two
o'clock, half-past two o'clock, every night. But now they say that this
new Licensing Act will close every public-house in this town at eleven
o'clock, and a straight-up eleven at that!"
"But what do you do it for?"
"What do we do it for? We do it to pass the time and the glass, young
sir. Not as I should like you to think as I ever drank, Mr Edwin. One
quart of ale I take every night, and have ever done; no more, no less."
"But"--Edwin's rapid, breaking voice interrupted eagerly the deep
majestic tones--"aren't you tired the next day? _I_ should be!"
"Never," said Big James. "I get up from my bed as fresh as a daisy at
six sharp. And I've known the nights when my bed ne'er saw me."
"You must be strong, Mr Yarlett, my word!" Edwin exclaimed. These
revelations of the habits and prowess of Big James astounded him. He
had never suspected that such things went on in the town.
"Aye! Middling!"
"I suppose it's a free-and-easy at the Dragon, to-night, Mr Yarlett?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Big James.
"I wish I could stay for it."
"And why not?" Big James suggested, and looked down at Edwin with
half-humorous incertitude.
Edwin shrugged his shoulders superiorly, indicating by instinct, in
spite of himself, that possibly Big James was trespassing over the
social line that divided them. And yet Big James's father would have
condescended to Edwin's grandfather. Only, Edwin now belonged to the
employing class, whilst Big James belonged to the employed. Already
Edwin, whose father had been thrashed by workmen whom a compositor would
hesitate to call skilled--already Edwin had the mien natural to a ruler,
and Big James, with dignified deference, would submit unresentingly to
his attitude. It was the subtlest thing. It was not that Edwin
obscurely objected to the suggestion of his being present at the
free-and-easy; it was that he objected (but nicely, and with good
nature) to any assumption of Big James's right to influence him towards
an act that his father would not approve. Instead of saying, "Why not?"
Big James ought to have said: "Nobody but you can decide that, as your
father's away." James ought to have been strictly impartial.
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