Is Firday?

So hell fjordian minions, I dig it's Friday and alls, but I alzo been writin' a big chunka' the day, and really am aboot to stop draggin' my finders (err...typo, wuz suppozed to be fingers) over this here key-bored! However, since you stopped by...I'll leave yas wid a chunka da eggspanded Pigglesworth and Gimpson tale I'm workin' on.

(P.S. It's the second part of the last P&G story I wrote - like two weeks ago...)


Moments later they passed through Clarendon Square in a cold rain, stepping over puddles, and forcing their way through a mass of umbrellas and glum-faced workers on the sidewalk, who hurried towards home or some other warm locale. Not long after they were on Seymore Street, and hurrying towards the worn doors of a dirty stone building. Of course, describing the two doors Pigglesworth and Gimpson were hurrying towards as “worn” is an understatemnent. They had, after decades of use, been polished down to the bare wood by countless passing hands. There was not a fleck of paint within four feet of the handles, and inches of wood had been brushed away into smooth dimples, where one might find their hands naturally moving towards in order to open the portal. If one had done such a thing, one would have found the oak doors had become so smooth that it felt like balsa-wood to the touch. Of course, this was when it wasn’t wet.

Above and around the two doors, was an arch of massive granite blocks. Whether the
arch was ornamental, or entirely structural was a secret unknown to those who lived in the place, or frequented it. However, bolted to the huge key-stone of the arch was a rusty iron pole that projected out more than five feet. Fastened to it with chains, was a dripping sign that swung in the breeze with random squeaks, reading “Boddington & Son Billiard Room & Public House.”
Pigglesworth moved up the three steps to the door, and pulled it open. Gimpson, mere feet behind his companion, dashed through the opening first. Seconds later they were removing their overcoats and hats, placing them on overflowing hooks and coat-trees positioned near the door. They had barely completed the task, and turned towards the bar, when a grizzled sailor stepped directly in front of them. He had short gray hair stuck on a head some six feet-four off the ground. Under that was an ugly face that had seen many ugly things, and a body that was formed from years of hard labor, and capable of a few years more. He jabbed a huge finger into Pigglesworth’s chest.

“Well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Pigglesworth! I’ve got more than a few scores to settle with you from the H.M.S. Swift, and I’ll begin the accounting right now!”

With that, he formed a powerful fist as he pulled his arm back. Before he could continue his assult, there was a solid “thunk” whereupon a confused look passed his eyes, and he fell straight down to the floor, crashing upon his rump where he sat, reaching up to feel the back of his head. Behind him was reviealed all five-foot two of young Peter Boddington, who brandished a thick bottle in his hand.
“Ere then!” He said down to the sailor, “We don’t go for louts like you assultin’ our regular customers, much less good ones like Mister Pigglesworth and Mister Gimpson. So take your hide elsewere, or I’ll give ya another drubbing!” He pasued with the bottle poised in his hand, waiting to see what the sailor would do. The sailor continued to rub his head in confusion.
“GO ON THEN!” Peter said much louder.

The sailor moved unsteadily to his feet, and turned towards the door. He had however, either a very powerful grudge, or had decided he wasn’t going to take being humiliated in public by a 17 year-old boy. He spun quickly spun around – throwing a fist in a wide hook towards Peter’s head. In a heartbeat, Peter slipped inside the punch, and with a short overhand clubbing motion, smacked the sailor promptly in the face with the bottle. He fell backwards to the floor, and didn’t move. Peter turned back to Pigglesworth and Gimpson.

“Never you mind about him. I’ll take care of it. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Oh, that reminds me…father was just over at the bar chatting with some fellow and he says – not to me at the time, I was just passing through with some mugs, but I overhears him say, “What a pity my friend Mister Gimpson isn’t here, why he’s a man of science.” If he’s still there, you should say hello, I sure he would be happy to see you.” With that, he turned around without awaiting a single word, and with surprising strength, picked the huge sailor off the floor by the scruff of his neck – and back of his jacket, and heaved him through the doors, into the street.
“Jolly good show.” Said Pigglesworth to Peter, as they moved towards the bar.
“Why I enjoy coming here,” Said Gimpson, “always feel safe.”