| Title | The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists |
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| Page | 506 |
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| Chapter | -- |
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| Text |
`No, you ain't,' replied Philpot coaxingly. `'Look 'ere. I'll tell you wot we'll do. You 'ave just one more 'arf-pint along of me, and then we'll both go 'ome together. I'll see you safe 'ome.' `See me safe 'ome! Wotcher mean?' indignantly demanded the other. 'Do you think I'm drunk or wot?' `No. Certainly not,' replied Philpot, hastily. `You're all right, as right as I am myself. But you know wot I mean. Let's go 'ome. You don't want to stop 'ere all night, do you?' By this time Alf had arrived at the door of the back of the bar. He was a burly young man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. `Put it outside,' growled the landlord, indicating the culprit. |
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