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Updated: May 17, 2025
I did a deal of house-painting at one time; I was a pretty smart brush hand, and made money at it. Well, I had a run of work at a place called Redclay, on the Lachlan side. You know the sort of town two pubs, a general store, a post office, a blacksmith's shop, a police station, a branch bank, and a dozen private weatherboard boxes on piles, with galvanized-iron tops, besides the humpies.
All about pubs and bar-maids and the things they'd eat and drink, and all of it Blighty. They were in the midst of a discussion of what part of the body was most desirable to part with for a permanent Blighty wound when a young officer pushed aside the burlap and wedged in. He was a lieutenant and was in command of our platoon. His name was Blofeld. Blofeld was most democratic.
What I mean, pay-day." There was a sour glance. Mrs. Minto sighed, and looked at the clock, frowning and wriggling her shoulders. It was a form of constant drill or shudder that affected her. "Yes," she said. "And your father not home. Pubs are closed. Wonder where he is. Come on, Sally. Get your supper and get to bed. Sharp, now." Sally rose to her feet and walked across the room.
The eye she was shading was black from a recent blow, a present from her husband, Sam the carter, who came home for his tea, fighting drunk, as regular as clockwork. "I thought I 'eard Sam snorin' after tea," said Mrs Jones. "Yes, 'e was; but 'e woke up about twelve, an' give me beans 'cause I'd let 'im sleep till the pubs was shut." "An' yer laid 'im out wi' the broom-handle, I s'pose?"
The police cannot do anything if there's a row going on across the street in New South Wales, except to send to Brisbane and have an extradition warrant applied for; and they don't do much if there's a row in Queensland. Most of the rows are across the border, where the pubs are. At least, I believe that's how it is, though the man who told me might have been a liar.
It was right enough to be unearthed as Miss Melvyn, grand-daughter of Mrs Bossier of Caddagat, and great friend and intimate of the swell Beechams of Five-Bob Downs station. At Goulburn I was only the daughter of old Dick Melvyn, broken-down farmer-cockatoo, well known by reason of his sprees about the commonest pubs in town.
The East End of London, I read, or some one says; and first of all, under my eyelids, leap the visions of the shining pubs, and in my ears echo the calls for "two of bitter" and "three of Scotch."
It is those damned I don't apologise " "Please don't. Say it again!" exclaimed Barry fervently. "Those damned pubs," continued the M. O., "stuck at every crossroads in this country.
But those moods never lasted long and he soon grew out of them altogether. He didn't flee temptation. He'd knock round the pubs on Saturday nights with his old mates, but never drank anything but soft stuff he was always careful to smell his glass for fear of an accident or trick.
"What a question to ask a cornet-player!" replied Mr Cheadle, as he undid his overcoat to reveal a much worn evening suit, together with a frayed, soiled shirt. "Excellent! excellent!" cried Mr Poulter on seeing the cornet-player's garb. "One 'ud think I played outside pubs," grumbled Mr Cheadle. "Now, if only Mr Baffy would come, you artistes could get to work," remarked Mr Poulter pleasantly.
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