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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 shebeenkeep-
er haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats.)
THE NAVVY: (Belching) Where’s the bloody house?
THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling a bot-
tle of stout. Respectable woman.
THE NAVVY: (Gripping the two redcoats, staggers for-
ward 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.
THE NAVVY: (Shouts)
We are the boys. Of Wexford.PRIVATE COMPTON: Say! What price the sergeantma-
jor?
PRIVATE CARR: Bennett? He’s my pal. I love old Ben-
nett.
THE NAVVY: (Shouts)
The galling chain.