The patrons of the bar were drawing round him. The barmaid was patting and pulling at her hair; even "Charley," the seedy nondescript that haunts all bars, and, unsalaried and ignored, brings the dirty glasses to the counter from the outlying tables--even "Charley" came forward with a deprecating grin and heel-taps of stout.
Nigel had gulped down the brandy, and, without exactly knowing why, had sprung to his feet.
"Give us a speech, Mus' Furlonger!" cried Boorer of the Kenthouse. "Tell us about gaol, and why it's damned and stinking."
"Have something to cool you fust," suggested Breame.
Nigel shook his head. He was in that convenient state when a man is sober enough to know he is drunk.
"Gaol's damned and stinking," he began, glaring sharply round him, "in the same way that this bar is damned and stinking--because it's full of men. But in gaol they're divided into two classes, top scoundrels and bottom scoundrels. The top scoundrels are the warders, with their eye at your door, and their hand inside your coat--in case you've got baccy."
A murmur of sympathy ran through his listeners, who had been a little taken aback by his opening phrases.
"Baccy's one of the things you aren't allowed. There's lots of others--drink, and girls, and your own body and soul--the body your mother gave you, and the soul God gave you," he finished sententiously with a hiccup.
Some one thrust another glass into his hand, and he gulped it down. It burnt his throat.
"I once had a body, and I once had a soul, but they aren't mine any longer now. They belong to the state--hic--they're number seventy-six--that's me who's speaking to you--number seventy-six--no other name for three yearsh ... go and see the p'lice every month--convict seventy-six ... made me no better'n a child--hic--what'er you to do with a man when he's got too clever for you?--turn him into a child--a crying child--a damn crying child--like me----"
The bar looked disconcerted. Nigel stood leaning up against the table, sobbing and hiccuping. The barmaid offered him her handkerchief, which was strongly scented, and edged with lace. Breame muttered--"We're unaccountable sorry, Mus' Furlonger," and Dunk suggested another brandy.
Suddenly Nigel flung round on them, his lips shrinking from his teeth, his eyes blazing.