‘Aren’t 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.
‘’Calls his-self a barman and don’t know what a pint is! Why, a pint’s the half of a quart, and there’s four quarts to the gallon. Have 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 drawn me off a pint easy enough. We didn't ‘have these bleeding l****s when I was a young man.’
‘When you were a young man we were all living in the t
