They were talking about the Lottery. Winston looked back when he had gone thirty metres. They were still arguing， with vivid， passionate faces. The Lottery， with its weekly pay-out of enormous prizes， was the one public event to which the proles paid serious attention. It was probable that there were some millions of proles for whom the Lottery was the principal if not the only reason for remaining alive. It was their delight， their folly， their anodyne， their intellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was concerned， even people who could barely read and write seemed capable of intricate calculations and staggering feats of memory. There was a whole tribe of men who made a living simply by selling systems， forecasts， and lucky amulets. Winston had nothing to do with the running of the Lottery， which was managed by the Ministry of Plenty， but he was aware （indeed everyone in the party was aware） that the prizes were largely imaginary. Only small sums were actually paid out， the winners of the big prizes being non-existent persons. In the absence of any real intercommunication between one part of Oceania and another， this was not difficult to arrange.
But if there was hope， it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable： it was when you looked at the human beings passing you on the pavement that it became an act of faith. The street into which he had turned ran downhill. He had a feeling that he had been in this neighbourhood before， and that there was a main thoroughfare not far away. From somewhere ahead there came a din of shouting voices. The street took a sharp turn and then ended in a flight of steps which led down into a sunken alley where a few stallkeepers were selling tired-looking vegetables. At this moment Winston remembered where he was. The alley led out into the main street， and down the next turning， not five minutes away， was the junk-shop where he had bought the blank book which was now his diary. And in a small stationer’s shop not far away he had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink.He paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the opposite side of the alley there was a dingy little pub whose windows appeared to be frosted over but in reality were merely coated with dust. A very old man， bent but active， with white moustaches that bristled forward like those of a prawn， pushed open the swing door and went in. As Winston stood watching， it occurred to him that the old man， who must be eighty at the least， had already been middle-aged when the Revolution happened. He and a few others like him were the last links that now existed with the vanished world of capitalism. In the Party itself there were not many people left whose ideas had been formed before the Revolution. The older generation had mostly been wiped out in the great purges of the fifties and sixties， and the few who survived had long ago been terrified into complete intellectual surrender. If there was any one still alive who could give you a truthful account of conditions in the early part of the century， it could only be a prole. Suddenly the passage from the history book that he had copied into his diary came back into Winston’s mind， and a lunatic impulse took hold of him. He would go into the pub， he would scrape acquaintance with that old man and question him. He would say to him： “Tell me about your life when you were a boy. What was it like in those days？ Were things better than they are now， or were they worse？”
Hurriedly， lest he should have time to become frightened， he descended the steps and crossed the narrow street. It was madness of course. As usual， there was no definite rule against talking to proles and frequenting their pubs， but it was far too unusual an action to pass unnoticed. If the patrols appeared he might plead an attack of faintness， but it was not likely that they would believe him. He pushed open the door， and a hideous cheesy smell of sour beer hit him in the face. As he entered the din of voices dropped to about half its volume. Behind his back he could feel everyone eyeing his blue overalls. A game of darts which was going on at the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps as much as thirty seconds. The old man whom he had followed was standing at the bar， having some kind of altercation with the barman， a large， stout， hook-nosed young man with enormous forearms. A knot of others， standing round with glasses in their hands， were watching the scene.
“I arst you civil enough， didn’t I？” said the old man， straightening his shoulders pugnaciously. “You telling me you ain’t got a pint mug in the’ole bleeding boozer？”
“And what in hell’s name is a pint？” said the barman， leaning forward with the tips of his fingers on the counter.
“Ark at’im！ Calls itself a barman and don’t know what a pint is！ Why， a pint’s the’alf of a quart， and there’s four quarts to the gallon.’Ave to teach you the A， B， C next.”
“Never heard of’em，”said the barman shortly.“Litre and half litre — that’s all we serve. There’s the glasses on the shelf in front of you.”
“I likes a pint，” persisted the old man. “You could ’a drawed me off a pint easy enough. We didn’t ’ave these bleeding litres when I was a young man.”
“When you were a young man we were all living in the treetops，” said the barman， with a glance at the other customers.
There was a shout of laughter， and the uneasiness caused by Winston’s entry seemed to disappear. The old man’s whitestubbled face had flushed pink. He turned away， muttering to himself， and bumped into Winston. Winston caught him gently by the arm.
“May I offer you a drink？”he said.
“You’re a gent，” said the other， straightening his shoulders again. He appeared not to have noticed Winston’s blue overalls. “Pint！” he added aggressively to the barman. “Pint of wallop.”