The rowdy gang of singers who sat at the scattered tables saw Arthur unsteadily to the head of the stairs, and though they must all have know that he was dead drunk, and seen the danger he would soon be in, no one attempted to talk to him back to his seat. With eleven pints of beer and seven small gins playing hide-and-seek inside his stomach, he fell from the top-most chair to the bottom.(...)
Allan Sillitoe. Saturday Night & Sunday Morning (Harper Perenial 1958) p.1
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