Caricature: The Drunkard

To the Jolly Bargemen, therefore, I [Pip] directed my steps. I had lifted my hand to the doorknob when the door opened of its own accord and out tumbled a figure in a tattered coat, nearly knocking me head over heels.
“Hallo there, young lad. A fine evening, no?” remarked a voice that slurred its words together so that they were barely comprehensible.
“Yes, Mudge,” I replied, glancing at the dismal grey sky above, for Mudge it was. I knew him by sight as well as anyone else in the village, though most thought themselves above speaking to him. It is true that Mrs. Joe would probably have dragged me home by the scruff of my neck had she known that I was speaking to Mudge, for he was not often sober and had not a penny to his name. His old grey hat was pulled low over his face, but even in the shadows I could tell his face looked as if he had scrubbed it with the ashes from Joe’s forge. Wild hair stuck out at every angle, and his scraggly beard was not well kept either. He was not a particularly tall man, and most people who saw him pretended not to see him at all. Indeed, he was almost a part of the town itself; it was not uncommon to see him tottering down the street in a weaving line clutching a bottle, and more often than not singing a tune so off-key it was unrecognizable.
Nevertheless, I often encountered him wandering about the streets and he always stopped to remark on the fine weather, regardless of what it was like. After taking a deep draught from his bottle, he spoke again.
“Well, seeing as we was in such an ‘urry to get to where we was going that we wasn't looking to see where we was going, p’raps we oughter be off. Good night to you, young sir.” And off he went, in a drunkenly weaving line and bawling some unidentifiable tune into the fine evening.


Jessica Zung