Middle-aged men tell interminable stories about money or smart strokes
of business; youngsters wink and look unspeakably wise as they talk on
the subject of the spring handicaps; wild spirits tell of their
experiences at a glove-fight in some foul East-end tavern; amorous
exploits are detailed with a fulness and freedom which would extremely
amaze the ladies who form the subject of the conversation. In all the
nasty confusion you never hear a word that can be called manly, unless
you are prepared to allow the manliness of pugilism. Each quarter-hour
sees the company grow more and more incoherent; the laughter gradually
becomes senseless, and loses the last indication of pure merriment; the
reek thickens; the dense air is permeated with queasy smells which rise
from the fusel oil and the sugared beer; the shrewd landlord looks on
with affected jollity, and hails casual friends with effusive imitation
of joy; and last of all "time" is called, and the host of men pour into
the street. They are ready for any folly or mischief, and they are all
more or less unfitted for the next day's work. Strangely enough, many of
those wretched fellows who thus waste time amid sordid surroundings come
from refined homes; but music and books and the quiet pleasant talk of
mothers and sisters are tame after the delirious rattle of the bar, and
thus bright lads go home with-their wits dulled and with a complete
incapacity for coherent speech.
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