forth on opportunities, or leaning against the mantel, hooked on to it with one elbow, the other arm hanging loosely, and hanging himself, rather forward seemingly—either somewhat exhausted with the last effort, or in half unconscious acknowledgment of applause or approbation, imaginary on his part or otherwise. They passed the big pewter on Saturday nights, and the old homely, good-humoured greeting jokes about, or at the old changeless, good-humoured butts, and the sly three-cornered, homely digs at each other. And discussed interesting and important little trivial events of their work day. And joked about the ever convenient scandal about Bob So-and-so and Mrs. ——, or Lizzie , etc., etc. Men talk good-humoredly and leniently about these things and bigger scandals, be they social or political, because they recognize that they are sinners themselves—which women never do—and are mute, inglorious and inactive swindlers, by necessity or the dead hopeless weight of circumstances.
And they'd talk of old yarns, and men who told them —"Bill Stubbins, wot used to tell that there yarn about, etc., etc.," or "Tom Scroggin'—he could tell that yarn. I've never heard no one as could tell it like him, poor Bill"; or "That chap as come to work in the brickfields one year; I never could remember that man's name—as used t' sing that song about, etc., etc." But this is more like the Bush.
And they'd talk of men who left their village and went to London or "abroad"—which is everywhere else—and more of men who went abroad and wrote
