floodgate system from old Brentford dock.” Pooley sucked upon his pint, his face a sullen mask of displeasure. “Then what of old Soap?”
A devilish smile crossed Omally’s face. “Gone, washed away.” His fingers made the appropriate motions. “So much for old Rigdenjyepo and the burrowers beneath, eh?”
Pooley hunched closer to his pint. “A pox on it all,” said he. “The Swan packed full of these idiots, old Soap flushed away round the proverbial S-bend and Cowboy Night looming up before us with about as much promise as the coming of Ragnorok!”
Omally grinned anew. “There are many pennies to be made from an event such as this; I myself have organized several tours of the vicinity for this afternoon at a pound a throw.”
Pooley shook his head in wonder. “You don’t waste a lot of time, do you?”
“Mustn’t let the grass grow under the old size nines.”
“Tell me, John,” said Jim, “how is it now that a man such as yourself who possesses such an amazing gift for the making of the well known ‘fast buck’ has not set himself up in business long ago and since retired upon the proceeds?”
“I fear,” said John, “that it is the regularity of ‘the work’ which depresses me, the daily routine which saps the vital fluids and destroys a man’s brain. I prefer greatly to live upon wits I have and should they ever desert me then, maybe then, I shall take to ‘the work’ as a full-time occupation.” Omally took from his pocket a “Book Here for Canal Tours” sign and began a “roll up, roll up” routine.
Pooley rose from the table and excused himself. He had no wish to become involved in Omally’s venture. He wished only to forget all about subterranean caverns and vanishing canal water, his only thoughts on that matter were as to what might happen should they attempt to refill the stretch of canal. Was Sprite Street lower geographically than the canal? If it was, would the attempt flood the entire neighbourhood? It really didn’t bear thinking about. Pooley slouched over to the bar and ordered another pint.
“Looking forward to Thursday night I’ll bet, Jim,” said Neville.
Pooley did not answer. Silently he sipped at his ale and let the snippets of barside conversation wash disjointedly about him. “And my old grandad is sitting by the dartboard when he threw,” came a voice, “and the dart went straight through the lobe of his right ear.” Pooley sipped at his ale. “And as they went to pull it out,” the voice continued, “the old man said ‘No don’t, it’s completely cured the rheumatism in my left knee.’”
Pooley yawned. Along the bar from him huddled in their usual conspiratorial poses were Brentford’s two resident jobbing builders, Hairy Dave and Jungle John, so named for their remarkably profuse outcroppings of cerebral hair. The twin brothers were discussing what seemed to be a most complex set of plans which they had laid out before them on the bar top.
“I don’t think I can quite understand all this,” said Dave.
“It’s a poser for certain,” his brother replied.
“I can’t see why he wants the altar to be so large.”
“I can’t see why there aren’t to be any pews.”
“Nor an organ.”
“Seems a funny kind of a chapel to me.”
Pooley listened with interest; surely no-one in the neighbourhood could be insane enough to commission those two notorious cowboys to build a chapel?
Hairy Dave said, “I can’t see why the plans should be written in Latin.”
“Oh,” said his brother, “it’s Latin is it? I thought it was trigonometry.”
Pooley could contain his curiosity no longer, and turned to the two master builders. “Hello lads, how’s business?”
John snatched the plan from the bar top and crumpled it into his jacket. “Ah, oh…” said his brother, “good day Jim and how is yourself?”
“For truth,” Pooley replied, “I am not a well man. Recently I have been party to events which have seriously
A devilish smile crossed Omally’s face. “Gone, washed away.” His fingers made the appropriate motions. “So much for old Rigdenjyepo and the burrowers beneath, eh?”
Pooley hunched closer to his pint. “A pox on it all,” said he. “The Swan packed full of these idiots, old Soap flushed away round the proverbial S-bend and Cowboy Night looming up before us with about as much promise as the coming of Ragnorok!”
Omally grinned anew. “There are many pennies to be made from an event such as this; I myself have organized several tours of the vicinity for this afternoon at a pound a throw.”
Pooley shook his head in wonder. “You don’t waste a lot of time, do you?”
“Mustn’t let the grass grow under the old size nines.”
“Tell me, John,” said Jim, “how is it now that a man such as yourself who possesses such an amazing gift for the making of the well known ‘fast buck’ has not set himself up in business long ago and since retired upon the proceeds?”
“I fear,” said John, “that it is the regularity of ‘the work’ which depresses me, the daily routine which saps the vital fluids and destroys a man’s brain. I prefer greatly to live upon wits I have and should they ever desert me then, maybe then, I shall take to ‘the work’ as a full-time occupation.” Omally took from his pocket a “Book Here for Canal Tours” sign and began a “roll up, roll up” routine.
Pooley rose from the table and excused himself. He had no wish to become involved in Omally’s venture. He wished only to forget all about subterranean caverns and vanishing canal water, his only thoughts on that matter were as to what might happen should they attempt to refill the stretch of canal. Was Sprite Street lower geographically than the canal? If it was, would the attempt flood the entire neighbourhood? It really didn’t bear thinking about. Pooley slouched over to the bar and ordered another pint.
“Looking forward to Thursday night I’ll bet, Jim,” said Neville.
Pooley did not answer. Silently he sipped at his ale and let the snippets of barside conversation wash disjointedly about him. “And my old grandad is sitting by the dartboard when he threw,” came a voice, “and the dart went straight through the lobe of his right ear.” Pooley sipped at his ale. “And as they went to pull it out,” the voice continued, “the old man said ‘No don’t, it’s completely cured the rheumatism in my left knee.’”
Pooley yawned. Along the bar from him huddled in their usual conspiratorial poses were Brentford’s two resident jobbing builders, Hairy Dave and Jungle John, so named for their remarkably profuse outcroppings of cerebral hair. The twin brothers were discussing what seemed to be a most complex set of plans which they had laid out before them on the bar top.
“I don’t think I can quite understand all this,” said Dave.
“It’s a poser for certain,” his brother replied.
“I can’t see why he wants the altar to be so large.”
“I can’t see why there aren’t to be any pews.”
“Nor an organ.”
“Seems a funny kind of a chapel to me.”
Pooley listened with interest; surely no-one in the neighbourhood could be insane enough to commission those two notorious cowboys to build a chapel?
Hairy Dave said, “I can’t see why the plans should be written in Latin.”
“Oh,” said his brother, “it’s Latin is it? I thought it was trigonometry.”
Pooley could contain his curiosity no longer, and turned to the two master builders. “Hello lads, how’s business?”
John snatched the plan from the bar top and crumpled it into his jacket. “Ah, oh…” said his brother, “good day Jim and how is yourself?”
“For truth,” Pooley replied, “I am not a well man. Recently I have been party to events which have seriously
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