‘I know two fellers as work for him,’ said the red-faced man, following up his advantage. ‘Six pound ten a week they get, double time Saturday afternoons if they want it.’

Moodily the landlord pushed the full glass towards Charles, and swept his shilling into the till.

‘Contracts, that’s how he does it,’ said the red-faced man. ‘Does it all by contracts. Goes to some big place, a block of office buildings or a hoe-tel, and gets a contract to clean their windows regular. Then he just sends the bill in to ’em every three months.’

‘Bill!’ the landlord burst out passionately. ‘When he was working for me you couldn’t trust him to pick up sixpence for half a pint of mild. When they heard it was one of our busy nights and he was behind the bar, we’d get all the riff-raff of the place in here, just because they knew he couldn’t add up. They’d order five drinks and pay him for three. But now he’s working for himself,’ he emphasized the word in tones of agonized loathing, ‘he knows enough to send in a regular bill. And with no mistakes in it neither.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ said the red-faced man. ‘I expect he over­charges ’em most of the time.’ He laughed delightedly at his own polished repartee.

Charles set down his empty glass and made for the urinal. When he got back the topic had been changed; it was evident that the landlord had been no more than mildly interested in the incom­petent who had grown rich. What seemed like apoplectic bad temper was merely the conversational style that made him a ‘character’: no doubt it was worth a thousand a year to the brewery that employed him. ‘Same again?’ he shouted angrily as Charles walked up to the bar. ‘No, a whisky, please,’ Charles replied, for he wanted more than anything in the world to get drunk, and he had now only six shillings left. Perhaps if he mixed his drinks sufficiently it might be enough. After the whisky he could have a gin, and then, if he had any money left, a glass of stout ought to finish him off.