‘Where’s your dad, Dennis?’ said one of the dart-players, ordering himself another pint. ‘Gone to the pictures,’ said Dennis. He drew the pint generously, letting some of the beer slop into the catch-all. ‘Your go, Jim,’ said David Mander, marking his score in chalk on the board. Jim was a slight rather stout young man, with small half-closed eyes with long lashes and sleek fair hair. He played clumsily, banging his halfpennies up the board and beyond the marked portion of the polished wood. The bar was quiet except for the thud of darts and the occasional exclamations of the players. Dennis yawned. He was nineteen, and bored, with a restless dark glance and brown hair that kept flopping over his eyes, to be brushed carefully back and combed with a small black comb he kept in the back pocket of his trousers. David got up and came over to the bar with the two empty glasses.
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