I talking about?” he said, spitting into the tarred gutter. “As you were! You do what you bloody well like, for Christ’s sake! I’m buying the beer. You’re a manager, see? And a gentleman in a very responsible position, see? And I’m sucking up to you, got me? Talk down to me—you know, treat me off’ anded. Foller?”
“I said, “Damned if I follow, Copper. What’s the idea?”
Copper Baldwin rubbed his forehead and said, “There I go again, if you see what I mean. I’m warning you, Yudenow gets you groggy—”
“That’s another one of his expressions,” I said.
“No, it isn’t,” said Copper Baldwin, “it’s one o’ mine. He picked it up off of me. That’s the way it is wiv ‘im—he’ll take away the very way you talk, and mess it about, and in the end you forget what’s what. The simplest little thing Yudenow can make you uncertain of. And all the time innocent as a child, mind you! Talk white, and ‘e’ll turn it black; and when ‘e lets you ‘ave it back it’s you that’s led ‘im astray. You wait and see. No, what I mean to say is, you take that quid and if Yudenow asks you do you want a few bob to tide you over, make wiv a mysterious—no, wait a minute! Tell him straight: ‘Bollocks!’ Only like a gentleman, d’you foil—Oh, for Christ’s sake! Ever read about Dracula? Ever read about Svengali? Well, then ...” He pulled himself together, shaking himself like a dog. “Don’t let Yudenow lend you a penny, and pay cash for every crumb you eat up at the Greek’s.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“‘Ave you read a lot of books?” Copper Baldwin asked.
“Quite a few,” I said.
“I bet I’ve read more than what you ‘ave,” he said.
“Shouldn’t be a bit surprised, Copper.”
“I dessay you believe what you read. Well, don’t. It’s all a lot o’ crap—every word, practically. One o’ these days we’ll ‘ave a discussion.... Generally, I can size a bloke up one-two-three—I mean, generally I can size a bloke up. But I ‘aven’t got the size of you yet. Well, come on in.”
So we went into the saloon bar of the Load of Mischief—a sad, damp place, close and cold at the same time. The landlord was a deaf old man, slow and heavy as lead. He wore green mittens, a balaclava helmet, and two knitted waistcoats. A paraffin heater burned behind the bar; but in the fireplace there was nothing but a quantity of crumpled red crepe paper, which, I gathered, was supposed to create an illusion of warmth. On the mantelpiece stood a shiny showcard depicting a lady in a tiara clinking glasses with a diplomat decorated with the Order of the Golden Fleece, and captioned CELEBRATE WITH CHAMPEX. There was also a shiny picture of a philosophical old gentleman with a churchwarden pipe, wearing a tasseled smoking cap, advertising CURLY MIXTURE—THE THINKER’S TOBACCO. Naturally, some joker had scratched out the TH and substituted ST. Similarly, there had been erasures and substitutions on the GOLD BRICK SHAG and the HUCKSTABLE TWIST showcards, and a very neat spoonerist job on the FRIAR TUCK ALE sign.
“The famous Cockney sense of humor,” said Copper Baldwin, following my glance. “A scream, ain’t it? You know—mix everything up. Instead o’ saying ‘a bottle o’ gin’ say ‘a jottle o’ bin.’If it turns out smutty, all the funnier. I don’t think! ... And there’s some more of your famous Cockney humor for you. Simply say what isn’t, that’s all. G. K. Chesterton in ‘is essay on Pickwick calls it ‘fine irony’ or something. ‘E was another ‘ysterical crap-hound. ‘E was as bad as Dickens, if not worse. Fine Irony o’ the Working Classes! All you’ve got to do is listen to the dirty sods enjoying themselves. Their idea o’ fun is for an old woman to kick up her legs and show her dirty drawers, and scream ‘Oops!’ ... Well, what’s it to be? Love-in-a-punt?”
“What’s that?”
“Pig’s ear. Beer: f—ing-near-water. Or a dropo’
“I said, “Damned if I follow, Copper. What’s the idea?”
Copper Baldwin rubbed his forehead and said, “There I go again, if you see what I mean. I’m warning you, Yudenow gets you groggy—”
“That’s another one of his expressions,” I said.
“No, it isn’t,” said Copper Baldwin, “it’s one o’ mine. He picked it up off of me. That’s the way it is wiv ‘im—he’ll take away the very way you talk, and mess it about, and in the end you forget what’s what. The simplest little thing Yudenow can make you uncertain of. And all the time innocent as a child, mind you! Talk white, and ‘e’ll turn it black; and when ‘e lets you ‘ave it back it’s you that’s led ‘im astray. You wait and see. No, what I mean to say is, you take that quid and if Yudenow asks you do you want a few bob to tide you over, make wiv a mysterious—no, wait a minute! Tell him straight: ‘Bollocks!’ Only like a gentleman, d’you foil—Oh, for Christ’s sake! Ever read about Dracula? Ever read about Svengali? Well, then ...” He pulled himself together, shaking himself like a dog. “Don’t let Yudenow lend you a penny, and pay cash for every crumb you eat up at the Greek’s.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“‘Ave you read a lot of books?” Copper Baldwin asked.
“Quite a few,” I said.
“I bet I’ve read more than what you ‘ave,” he said.
“Shouldn’t be a bit surprised, Copper.”
“I dessay you believe what you read. Well, don’t. It’s all a lot o’ crap—every word, practically. One o’ these days we’ll ‘ave a discussion.... Generally, I can size a bloke up one-two-three—I mean, generally I can size a bloke up. But I ‘aven’t got the size of you yet. Well, come on in.”
So we went into the saloon bar of the Load of Mischief—a sad, damp place, close and cold at the same time. The landlord was a deaf old man, slow and heavy as lead. He wore green mittens, a balaclava helmet, and two knitted waistcoats. A paraffin heater burned behind the bar; but in the fireplace there was nothing but a quantity of crumpled red crepe paper, which, I gathered, was supposed to create an illusion of warmth. On the mantelpiece stood a shiny showcard depicting a lady in a tiara clinking glasses with a diplomat decorated with the Order of the Golden Fleece, and captioned CELEBRATE WITH CHAMPEX. There was also a shiny picture of a philosophical old gentleman with a churchwarden pipe, wearing a tasseled smoking cap, advertising CURLY MIXTURE—THE THINKER’S TOBACCO. Naturally, some joker had scratched out the TH and substituted ST. Similarly, there had been erasures and substitutions on the GOLD BRICK SHAG and the HUCKSTABLE TWIST showcards, and a very neat spoonerist job on the FRIAR TUCK ALE sign.
“The famous Cockney sense of humor,” said Copper Baldwin, following my glance. “A scream, ain’t it? You know—mix everything up. Instead o’ saying ‘a bottle o’ gin’ say ‘a jottle o’ bin.’If it turns out smutty, all the funnier. I don’t think! ... And there’s some more of your famous Cockney humor for you. Simply say what isn’t, that’s all. G. K. Chesterton in ‘is essay on Pickwick calls it ‘fine irony’ or something. ‘E was another ‘ysterical crap-hound. ‘E was as bad as Dickens, if not worse. Fine Irony o’ the Working Classes! All you’ve got to do is listen to the dirty sods enjoying themselves. Their idea o’ fun is for an old woman to kick up her legs and show her dirty drawers, and scream ‘Oops!’ ... Well, what’s it to be? Love-in-a-punt?”
“What’s that?”
“Pig’s ear. Beer: f—ing-near-water. Or a dropo’
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