18

[Sidenote: _IN THE BAR_]

I was in the Alexandra bar this evening, drinking bitter ale. Apart
from the new saloon counter, it is an old-fashioned place, full of
wooden partitions and corners and draughts. The incandescent light was
flickering dimly in the draught that the sea-wind drove through the
window and the front door. Seated around the fireplace or against the
painted partitions, and standing about in groups, were fishermen in
guernseys, ex-fishermen, some bluejackets, and some solid-looking men
who were pensioners or sailors in mufti. A couple of repulsive
lodging-house keepers (they eat too much that falls from the lodgers'
tables) were talking local politics with a foxy-faced young tradesman
of the semi-professional sort. The barman, who had had enough to drink,
was thumb-fingered, loud-voiced, hastily slow. Sometimes the sound of a
heavier wave than usual broke through the buzz of conversation, and
sometimes, when the conversation dropped, wave after wave could be
heard sweeping the shingle along the beach.

A party of vagrant minstrels came to the front-door steps. They played
a comic song, and the voices within rose in defiance of the music, so
that when it stopped suddenly, they were surprised into silence.

Up through that silence welled the opening notes of Schubert's
_Serenade_. Nobody spoke. The barman took up a glass cheerily. "My
doctor ordered me to take a little when I feel I need it," he said; and
was _hushed_ down. Some edged towards the door, others sat back with
faces and pipes tilted up, and others gazed down at the floor. A
memory-struck, far-away look came into their eyes. Only the barman with
his glass, and the tradesman in his smart suit, seemed wholly
themselves.

The _Serenade_ ceased. None spoke. The light gave a great flicker.
"What the bloody hell!" exclaimed John Widger. The day-dreamers awoke,
as if from a light sleep. An everyday look came quickly into their eyes
and each one shifted in his seat. Some even shook themselves like dogs.
A joke was made about the woman who came in to collect pence, and the
conversation rose till nothing of the sea's noise could be heard.

I realised with a shock that in four days I shall not be here, and when
I left the bar, I forgot entirely to say _Good-night_.

[Sidenote: _A GLIMPSE_]

It was as if, for the moment, we had all been very intimate; as if we
had all gone an adventure together and had peeped over the edge of the
world.