Evening
His musing paused, the Wick gave a smile. The usual evening crowd had gathered, tired from a day's work and filled with the baker's scraps some hundred yards down the road. Now they were looking to waste away the evening, before drunkenly staggering home to whatever waited for them - some to empty beds, others to wives. It was not his place to pry, only to quietly make notes beneath the counter and mentally record the on goings. After all, knowing was half the battle. Taking the tankard, his eyes followed the patron's gesture to the Fisher's Brown. A small turn and pivot he filled it with the malty contents before sliding it back. Coin slapped down, he scrapped it away beneath the counter, everything was done.
Jenson's nose twitched. There was the scent of tobacco once more, the usual smoker's club gently puffing away. The thin layer of smoke settled around them. But there was another smell, sweeter and foreign that caught his attention. His gaze scanned the pub, before he settled back to his almanac. His head turned as he caught the image in his vision once more, lip curling in amusement, "Heh. Looks like a donkey."
It was the trilling of Beatrice that drew him away from the image once more, followed by a firm bump of the head into his shoulder. The yellow eyes stared at him demandingly and he obliged with a pat. His lips twisted. The scent was getting stronger now, more noticeable as he took in a deeper inhale - a faint almost citrus after burn. His eyes moved, squinting and narrowing down. There were strangers in his bar, he realised that now. They had come to the bar relatively quickly, a pair of greasy looking men - weedy looking in comparison to the dock workers - requested only a half pint of Squire's Delight, and sat as far as physically possible away from the door. Hunched in, they kept their heads down for the most part. He was certain there was a small satchel wedged between the pair of them, some rolled up tobacco based spliff hanging limply from their lips.
He regretted not paying too much attention to them. He gave a tut, tucking the almanac under the bar out if sight. The cat continued to paw at him however, tail held high and the trilling growing louder. Her paw swatted at him firmly, before she bounded down across the bar. The Wick gave her a quizzical look, "Well thank you, your Highness." His gaze shifted to look upon one of the Patrons who sharply stood, bench scraping on the flooring beneath. Another one of the dockworkers, he thought at first a fight was going to break out by the way another rose as well. Sapped, waxy skin, a swaying of movement. It was the cupping of hands over the mouth and the juddering of shoulders that revealed the truth.
"Oi! Oi! Take it outside! Don't you be sick in here now!" he cursed under his breath, "Bloody piss head."