The landlord put a fresh disc into it and wound it up and it began to play 'The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.' The Semi-drunk happened to know the words of the chorus of this song, and when he heard the music he started unsteadily to his feet and with many fierce looks and gestures began to roar at the top of his voice: 'They may build their ships, my lads, And try to play the game, But they can't build the boys of the Bulldog breed, Wot made ole Hingland's--' ''Ere! Stop that, will yer ?' cried the Old Dear, fiercely.

'I told you once before that I don't allow that sort of thing in my 'ouse!' The Semi-drunk stopped in confusion.
'I don't mean no 'arm,' he said unsteadily, appealing to the company.
'I don't want no chin from you!' said the Old Dear with a ferocious scowl.

'If you want to make that row you can go somewheres else, and the sooner you goes the better.

You've been 'ere long enough.' This was true.

The man had been there long enough to spend every penny he had been possessed of when he first came: he had no money left now, a fact that the observant and experienced landlord had divined some time ago.