'I arst you civil enough, didn't I?' said the old man, straightening
his shoulders pugnaciously. 'You telling me you ain't got a pint mug in the
'ole bleeding boozer?'
'And what in hell's name is a pint?' said the barman, leaning forward
with the tips of his fingers on the counter.
'Ark at 'im! Calls 'isself a barman and don't know what a pint is!
Why, a pint's the 'alf of a quart, and there's four quarts to the gallon.
'Ave to teach you the A, B, C next.'
'Never heard of 'em,' said the barman shortly. 'Litre and half litre
-- that's all we serve. There's the glasses on the shelf in front of you.'
'I likes a pint,' persisted the old man. 'You could 'a drawed me off a
pint easy enough. We didn't 'ave these bleeding litres when I was a young
man.'
'When you were a young man we were all living in the treetops,' said
the barman, with a glance at the other customers.
There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused by Winston's
entry seemed to disappear. The old man's whitestubbled face had flushed
pink. He turned away, muttering to himself, and bumped into Winston.
Winston caught him gently by the arm.
'May I offer you a drink?' he said.
'You're a gent,' said the other, straightening his shoulders again. He
appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue overalls. 'Pint!' he added
aggressively to the barman. 'Pint of wallop.'
The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into thick
glasses which he had rinsed in a bucket under the counter. Beer was the
only drink you could get in prole pubs. The proles were supposed not to
drink gin, though in practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The
game of darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar had
begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence was forgotten for a
moment. There was a deal table under the wi