Ruth
Both Easton and Ruth—whose best clothes had been pawned to raise the money to pay the poor rate—felt very mean and shabby beside them.
When they arrived in the bar, Crass paid for the first round of drinks. A pint of Old Six for himself; the same for Easton; half a pint for Mrs Easton and threepenny worth of gin for Mrs Crass.
The Besotted Wretch was there, just finishing a game of hooks and rings with the Semi-Drunk—who had propitiated the Old Dear by calling round, the day after he was thrown out, to apologise for his conduct, and had since become a regular customer. Philpot was absent. He had been there that afternoon, so the Old Dear said, but he had gone home about five o'clock, but he was almost sure to look in again in the course of the evening.
Although the house was not nearly so full as it would have been in better times, there was a large number of customers, for the 'Cricketers' was one of the most popular houses in the town. Many of the seats in the public bar were occupied by women, some young and accompanied by their husbands, some old and evidently sodden with drink.
In one corner of the public bar, drinking beer or gin with a number of young fellows, were three young girls who worked at a steam laundry in the neighbourhood. Besides these there were two large, fat, gipsy-looking women, evidently hawkers, for on the floor beside them were two baskets containing bundles of chrysanthemums, and two plainly and shabbily dressed women about thirty-five years of age, who were always to be found here on Saturday nights, drinking with any man who was willing to pay for them. The behaviour of these two women was quiet and their manners unobtrusive. They seemed to realise that they were there only on sufferance, and their demeanour was shamefaced and humble.
The majority of the guests were standing. The floor was sprinkled with sawdust which served to soak up the beer that slopped out of the glasses of those whose hands were too unsteady to hold them upright. The air was foul with the smell of beer, spirits and tobacco smoke, and the uproar was deafening, for nearly everyone was talking at the same time, their voices clashing discordantly with the strains of the polyphone, which was playing 'The Garden of Your Heart.' In one corner a group of men was convulsed with laughter at
201
