Complete Works. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ is the army. They're deadly poor, and life's deadly slow. So they hope for a war. They look for war as a chance of getting on. Till there's a war they are idle good-for-nothings. When there's a war, they are leaders and commanders. There you are, then—they WANT war!”

      He was not a favourite debater in the public-house, being too quick and overbearing. He irritated the older men by his assertive manner, and his cocksureness. They listened in silence, and were not sorry when he finished.

      Dawes interrupted the young man's flow of eloquence by asking, in a loud sneer:

      “Did you learn all that at th' theatre th' other night?”

      Paul looked at him; their eyes met. Then he knew Dawes had seen him coming out of the theatre with Clara.

      “Why, what about th' theatre?” asked one of Paul's associates, glad to get a dig at the young fellow, and sniffing something tasty.

      “Oh, him in a bob-tailed evening suit, on the lardy-da!” sneered Dawes, jerking his head contemptuously at Paul.

      “That's comin' it strong,” said the mutual friend. “Tart an' all?”

      “Tart, begod!” said Dawes.

      “Go on; let's have it!” cried the mutual friend.

      “You've got it,” said Dawes, “an' I reckon Morelly had it an' all.”

      “Well, I'll be jiggered!” said the mutual friend. “An' was it a proper tart?”

      “Tart, God blimey—yes!”

      “How do you know?”

      “Oh,” said Dawes, “I reckon he spent th' night—”

      There was a good deal of laughter at Paul's expense.

      “But who WAS she? D'you know her?” asked the mutual friend.

      “I should SHAY SHO,” said Dawes.

      This brought another burst of laughter.

      “Then spit it out,” said the mutual friend.

      Dawes shook his head, and took a gulp of beer.

      “It's a wonder he hasn't let on himself,” he said. “He'll be braggin' of it in a bit.”

      “Come on, Paul,” said the friend; “it's no good. You might just as well own up.”

      “Own up what? That I happened to take a friend to the theatre?”

      “Oh well, if it was all right, tell us who she was, lad,” said the friend.

      “She WAS all right,” said Dawes.

      Paul was furious. Dawes wiped his golden moustache with his fingers, sneering.

      “Strike me—! One o' that sort?” said the mutual friend. “Paul, boy, I'm surprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?”

      “Just a bit, like!”

      He winked at the other men.

      “Oh well,” said Paul, “I'll be going!”

      The mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

      “Nay,” he said, “you don't get off as easy as that, my lad. We've got to have a full account of this business.”

      “Then get it from Dawes!” he said.

      “You shouldn't funk your own deeds, man,” remonstrated the friend.

      Then Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half a glass of beer in his face.

      “Oh, Mr. Morel!” cried the barmaid, and she rang the bell for the “chucker-out”.

      Dawes spat and rushed for the young man. At that minute a brawny fellow with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his trousers tight over his haunches intervened.

      “Now, then!” he said, pushing his chest in front of Dawes.

      “Come out!” cried Dawes.

      Paul was leaning, white and quivering, against the brass rail of the bar. He hated Dawes, wished something could exterminate him at that minute; and at the same time, seeing the wet hair on the man's forehead, he thought he looked pathetic. He did not move.

      “Come out, you—,” said Dawes.

      “That's enough, Dawes,” cried the barmaid.

      “Come on,” said the “chucker-out”, with kindly insistence, “you'd better be getting on.”

      And, by making Dawes edge away from his own close proximity, he worked him to the door.

      “THAT'S the little sod as started it!” cried Dawes, half-cowed, pointing to Paul Morel.

      “Why, what a story, Mr. Dawes!” said the barmaid. “You know it was you all the time.”

      Still the “chucker-out” kept thrusting his chest forward at him, still he kept edging back, until he was in the doorway and on the steps outside; then he turned round.

      “All right,” he said, nodding straight at his rival.

      Paul had a curious sensation of pity, almost of affection, mingled with violent hate, for the man. The coloured door swung to; there was silence in the bar.

      “Serve, him, jolly well right!” said the barmaid.

      “But it's a nasty thing to get a glass of beer in your eyes,” said the mutual friend.

      “I tell you I was glad he did,” said the barmaid. “Will you have another, Mr. Morel?”

      She held up Paul's glass questioningly. He nodded.

      “He's a man as doesn't care for anything, is Baxter Dawes,” said one.

      “Pooh! is he?” said the barmaid. “He's a loud-mouthed one, he is, and they're never much good. Give me a pleasant-spoken chap, if you want a devil!”

      “Well, Paul, my lad,” said the friend, “you'll have to take care of yourself now for a while.”

      “You won't have to give him a chance over you, that's all,” said the barmaid.

      “Can you box?” asked a friend.

      “Not a bit,” he answered, still very white.

      “I might give you a turn or two,” said the friend.

      “Thanks, I haven't time.”

      And presently he took his departure.

      “Go along with him, Mr. Jenkinson,” whispered the barmaid, tipping Mr. Jenkinson the wink.

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