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 were a young man，” said Winston tentatively.
The old man’s pale blue eyes moved from the darts board to the bar， and from the bar to the door of the Gents， as though it were in the bar-room that he expected the changes to have occurred.
“The beer was better，” he said finally. “And cheaper！ When I was a young man， mild beer — wallop we used to call it — was fourpence a pint. That was before the war， of course.”
“Which war was that？” said Winston.
“It’s all wars，” said the old man vaguely. He took up his glass， and his shoulders straightened again.“Ere’s wishing you the very best of’ealth！”
In his lean throat the sharp-pointed Adam’s apple made a surprisingly rapid up-and-down movement， and the beer vanished. Winston went to the bar and came back with two more half-litres. The old man appeared to have forgotten his prejudice against drinking a full litre.
“You are very much older than I am，” said Winston. “You must have been a grown man before I was born. You can remember what it was like in the old days， before the Revolution. People of my age don’t really know anything about those times. We can only read about them in books， and what it says in the books may not be true. I should like your opinion on that. The history books say that life before the Revolution was completely different from what it is now. There was the most terrible oppression， injustice， poverty worse than anything we can imagine. Here in London， the great mass of the people never had enough to eat from birth to death. Half of them hadn’t even boots on their feet. They worked twelve hours a day， they left school at nine， they slept ten in a room. And at the same time there were a very few people， only a few thousands — the capitalists， they were called — who were rich and powerful. They owned everything that there was to own. They lived in great gorgeous houses with thirty servants， they rode about in motorcars and four-horse carriages， they drank champagne， they wore top hats-”
The old man brightened suddenly.
“Top ’ats！” he said. “Funny you should mention ’em. The same thing come into my ’ead only yesterday， I dono why. I was jest thinking， I ain’t seen a top ’at in years. Gorn right out， they ’ave. The last time I wore one was at my sister-in-law’s funeral. And that was — well， I couldn’t give you the date， but it must’a been fifty years ago. Of course it was only ’ired for the occasion， you understand.”
“It isn’t very important about the top hats，” said Winston patiently. “The point is， these capitalists — they and a few lawyers and priests and so forth who lived on them — were the lords of the earth. Everything existed for their benefit. You — the ordinary people， the workers — were their slaves. They could do what they liked with you. They could ship you off to Canada like cattle. They could sleep with your daughters if they chose. They could order you to be flogged with something called a cat-o’-nine tails. You had to take your cap off when you passed them. Every capitalist went about with a gang of lackeys who—”
The old man brightened again.
“Lackeys！” he said. “Now there’s a word I ain’t ’eard since ever so long. Lackeys！ That reg’lar takes me back， that does. I recollect oh， donkey’s years ago — I used to sometimes go to ’Yde Park of a Sunday afternoon to ’ear the blokes making speeches. Salvation Army， Roman Catholics， Jews， Indians — all sorts there was. And there was one bloke — well， I couldn’t give you ’is name， but a real powerful speaker ’e was.’E didn’t ’alf give it ’em！‘Lackeys！’ ’e says， ‘lackeys of the bourgeoisie！ Flunkies of the ruling class！’ Parasites — that was another of them. And ’yenas — ’e definitely called ’em ’yenas. Of course ’e was referring to the Labour Party， you understand.”
Winston had the feeling that they were talking at cross-purposes.
“What I really wanted to know was this，” he said. “Do you feel that you have more freedom now than you had in those days？ Are you treated more like a human being？ In the old days， the rich people， the people at the top—”
“The ’Ouse of Lords，” put in the old man reminiscently.
“The House of Lords， if you like. What I am asking is， were these people able to treat you as an inferior， simply because they were rich and you were poor？ Is it a fact， for instance， that you had to call them ‘Sir’ and take off your cap when you passed them？”
The old man appeared to think deeply. He drank off about a quarter of his beer before answering.
“Yes，”he said.“They liked you to touch your cap to’em. It showed respect， like. I didn‘t agree with it， myself， but I done it often enough. Had to， as you might say.”
“And was it usual — I‘m only quoting what I‘ve read in history books — was it usual for these people and their servants to push you off the pavement into the gutter？”
“One of ’em pushed me once，” said the old man. “I recollect it as if it was yesterday. It was Boat Race night — terribly rowdy they used to get on Boat Race night — and I bumps into a young bloke on Shaftesbury Avenue. Quite a gent， ’e was — dress shirt， top ’at， black overcoat. ’E was kind of zig-zagging across the pavement， and I bumps into ’im accidental-like. ’E says， ‘Why can’t you look where you’re going？’ ’e says. I say， ‘Ju think you’ve bought the bleeding pavement？’ ’E says， ‘I’ll twist your bloody ’ead off if you get fresh with me.’ I says， ‘You’re drunk. I’ll give you in charge in ’alf a minute，’ I says. An’ if you’ll believe me， ’e puts ’is ’and on my chest and gives me a shove as pretty near sent me under the wheels of a bus. Well， I was young in them days， and I was going to ’ave fetched ’im one， only—”