A/N: 2 BAD WORDS HERE. Consider yourself warned.
He barged his tankard against the table; sticky froth splashed and washed away some grime. Swinish hell-hole. He only came here because last week they threw him out from the "Dregs".
Shame, that. There were probably less of them than he counted. Could have given it a try. And the brew here was fit for drowning kittens.
- Watson! Heard your brother back?
- Go'way.
- No, really! Tha'ss not th' way to meet one of your own. He's some hero now, isn' Johnny.
- I said, go away, or you leave this fine establishmen' straight to the churchyard.
- What, read a story and went all for big words? Tsk, tsk. Aren't you a snob.
He growled and rushed forward, fists a-flying madly; in a wink, everyone was engaged in the scrum.
It felt good. Oh, but it did. A gentleman's treat. That was the reason he didn't mind stale porter and staler mutton as much as he thought he ought to; the chance to discharge his impotent fury.
His little brother went to the war and was wounded there, like some knight errant. He stayed, and what he now was? A bleeding drunkard.
Andrew Watson sent his opponent sprawling on the muddy floor, his mind replaying those horrid words –
'I had neither kith nor kin in England...'
You bast...
