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Authors: John MacLachlan Gray
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flask of brandy
from his pocket and avails himself of a healthy swig: no doubt his
chilly reception is based upon the misapprehension that he had gone
over to a competing publican. That can soon be put right, he thinks,
and with a pinch of chemist's snuff up the nostril for good measure,
he focuses upon the door to the rear snug, a room shaped like a
tricorner hat, containing a long table, around which the upper caste
of public oracles gnaw one another's entrails for nourishment. He can
discern the Scotsman's odious brogue, dominating the discussion as
usual. The barkeeper watches Whitty's well–tailored back as it
heads for the rear snug: A canary waistcoat. Wouldn't you know. It
never occurred to Humphrey that Plant's might harbour a freak of
nature. How is it that he served the party for years and was none the
wiser? It required an intellect on Mr Fraser's level to fit the clues
together: Mr Whitty's fancy style of dress, his affected Oxford
accent; and a frequenter of Turkish baths, where the unnatural swine
do their beastly business. Shaking his head in a gesture of
helplessness common to simple men who have seen too much, Humphrey
fetches a dish–rag and executes a thorough wipe of the mahogany
bar, giving a good scrub to the section upon which Mr Whitty was
leaning. Were he a Roman Catholic, he would cross himself. Whitty
steps into the rear snug where Fraser captains his ship of fools.
Lacking an original thought, the man from Dodd's endures by means 41
WHITE STONE DAY of an affected posture of cantankerous populism and a
Celtic willingness, lacking any other weapon, to bite the throat out
of an enemy. 'Och Whitty, just my man, absent far too long, guid
show!' Clearly, Fraser has not progressed in his effort to form
civilised vowels, but he has not lacked for meat: he has gained a
stone since they last met; as well, he sports the complexion that
goes with good drink and mutton –a deep, ventricular shade of
red, a sign of prosperity and good health. 'Mr Fraser. Delightful, to
see you flush with the good things in life.' 'Fruits of the work
ethic, Mr Whitty. A life spent seeking truth, and forgoing the sport
of backgammon.' Unaccountably, Fraser's reference to a common
gambling–game elicits a merry response from the three other
gentlemen at table: Gosse of the Yokel's Preceptor (a guide to London
for immigrants from the country), Home of Bentley's Journal, and
Ambrose of the Morning Chronicle. 'A guid cut, would you not say,
gentlemen?' Fraser says to the company. Home and Ambrose scratch
merrily upon their notebooks in reply, plagiarism being the truest
form of flattery. 'I am at a loss as to the connection between your
capacity for drudgery and the playing of a board game.' 'I should
think it would be clear to you, sir. Think of it as a case of East
meets West.' Another round of snickering. 'By a remarkable
coincidence,' Fraser continues, 'we were just a moment ago
reprehending the outbreak of immorality in public places –in
particular, the proliferation of unnatural acts, occasioned by the
Canning affair. D'ye recall it, Edmund?' 'Ah yes, Canning, poor
fellow. Surprised with his breeches unbuttoned, with a soldier –
named, appropriately, Flower – whose dress was in similar
disarray.' 'Your empathy is most Christian, Edmund.' 'Did you read
about the infant skeletons that lined the walls when Maxwell's on
Betty Street was pulled down? The consensual antics of two adults
seem trivial in comparison.' 'Trivial, Edmund? May I remind you that
a generation ago, uranism – unnatural conversation between men
– was punishable by death.' 'And so it remains in your country,
a tradition which has provided a charter for blackmailers.' Whitty
bites his tongue, unwilling to join 42 PLANT'S INN further in the
argument and thereby contribute to Fraser's newspaper, gratis.
'Gentlemen, this is not London, it is Sodom!' pronounces Ambrose. 'I
am told that the public houses now must post signs – Beware of
Sods –while at
from his pocket and avails himself of a healthy swig: no doubt his
chilly reception is based upon the misapprehension that he had gone
over to a competing publican. That can soon be put right, he thinks,
and with a pinch of chemist's snuff up the nostril for good measure,
he focuses upon the door to the rear snug, a room shaped like a
tricorner hat, containing a long table, around which the upper caste
of public oracles gnaw one another's entrails for nourishment. He can
discern the Scotsman's odious brogue, dominating the discussion as
usual. The barkeeper watches Whitty's well–tailored back as it
heads for the rear snug: A canary waistcoat. Wouldn't you know. It
never occurred to Humphrey that Plant's might harbour a freak of
nature. How is it that he served the party for years and was none the
wiser? It required an intellect on Mr Fraser's level to fit the clues
together: Mr Whitty's fancy style of dress, his affected Oxford
accent; and a frequenter of Turkish baths, where the unnatural swine
do their beastly business. Shaking his head in a gesture of
helplessness common to simple men who have seen too much, Humphrey
fetches a dish–rag and executes a thorough wipe of the mahogany
bar, giving a good scrub to the section upon which Mr Whitty was
leaning. Were he a Roman Catholic, he would cross himself. Whitty
steps into the rear snug where Fraser captains his ship of fools.
Lacking an original thought, the man from Dodd's endures by means 41
WHITE STONE DAY of an affected posture of cantankerous populism and a
Celtic willingness, lacking any other weapon, to bite the throat out
of an enemy. 'Och Whitty, just my man, absent far too long, guid
show!' Clearly, Fraser has not progressed in his effort to form
civilised vowels, but he has not lacked for meat: he has gained a
stone since they last met; as well, he sports the complexion that
goes with good drink and mutton –a deep, ventricular shade of
red, a sign of prosperity and good health. 'Mr Fraser. Delightful, to
see you flush with the good things in life.' 'Fruits of the work
ethic, Mr Whitty. A life spent seeking truth, and forgoing the sport
of backgammon.' Unaccountably, Fraser's reference to a common
gambling–game elicits a merry response from the three other
gentlemen at table: Gosse of the Yokel's Preceptor (a guide to London
for immigrants from the country), Home of Bentley's Journal, and
Ambrose of the Morning Chronicle. 'A guid cut, would you not say,
gentlemen?' Fraser says to the company. Home and Ambrose scratch
merrily upon their notebooks in reply, plagiarism being the truest
form of flattery. 'I am at a loss as to the connection between your
capacity for drudgery and the playing of a board game.' 'I should
think it would be clear to you, sir. Think of it as a case of East
meets West.' Another round of snickering. 'By a remarkable
coincidence,' Fraser continues, 'we were just a moment ago
reprehending the outbreak of immorality in public places –in
particular, the proliferation of unnatural acts, occasioned by the
Canning affair. D'ye recall it, Edmund?' 'Ah yes, Canning, poor
fellow. Surprised with his breeches unbuttoned, with a soldier –
named, appropriately, Flower – whose dress was in similar
disarray.' 'Your empathy is most Christian, Edmund.' 'Did you read
about the infant skeletons that lined the walls when Maxwell's on
Betty Street was pulled down? The consensual antics of two adults
seem trivial in comparison.' 'Trivial, Edmund? May I remind you that
a generation ago, uranism – unnatural conversation between men
– was punishable by death.' 'And so it remains in your country,
a tradition which has provided a charter for blackmailers.' Whitty
bites his tongue, unwilling to join 42 PLANT'S INN further in the
argument and thereby contribute to Fraser's newspaper, gratis.
'Gentlemen, this is not London, it is Sodom!' pronounces Ambrose. 'I
am told that the public houses now must post signs – Beware of
Sods –while at
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