appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue overalls. 'Pint!' he added
aggressively to the barman. 'Pint of wallop.'
The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into thick
glasses which he had rinsed in a bucket under the counter. Beer was the
only drink you could get in prole pubs. The proles were supposed not to
drink gin, though in practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The
game of darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar had
begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence was forgotten for a
moment. There was a deal table under the window where he and the old man
could talk without fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but
at any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had made sure
of as soon as he came in.
''E could 'a drawed me off a pint,' grumbled the old man as he settled
down behind a glass. 'A 'alf litre ain't enough. It don't satisfy. And a
'ole litre's too much. It starts my bladder running. Let alone the price.'
'You must have seen great changes since you we