“I remember it very well,” answered the Englishman, with restraint.

“And don’t ye remember,” went on the exhilarated Irishman, with solemnity, “that unless ye could produce a poetic lyric of your own, written and sung by yourself, I threatened to …”

“To sing again,” said the impenetrable Pump. “Yes, I know.”

He calmly proceeded to take out of his pockets, which were, alas, more like those of a poacher than an innkeeper, a folded and faded piece of paper.

“I wrote it when you asked me,” he said simply. “I have never tried to sing it. But I’ll sing it myself, when you’ve sung your song, against anybody singing at all.”

“All right,” cried the somewhat excited Captain, “to hear a song from you–why, I’ll sing anything. This is the Song Against Songs, Hump.”

And again he let his voice out like a bellow against the evening silence.

“The song of the sorrow of Melisande is a weary song and a dreary song,The glory of Mariana’s grange had got into great decay,The song of the Raven Never More has never been called a cheery song,And the brightest things in Baudelaire are anything else but gay.But who will write us a riding song,Or a hunting song or a drinking song,Fit for them that arose and rode,When day and the wine were red?But bring me a quart of claret out,And I will write you a clinking song,A song of war and a song of wine,And a song to wake the dead.“The song of the fury of Fragolette is a florid song and a torrid song,The song of the sorrow of Tara is sung to a harp unstrung,The song of the cheerful Shropshire Kid I consider a perfectly horrid song,And the song of the happy Futurist is a song that can’t be sung.But who will write us a riding song,Or a fighting song or a drinking song,Fit for the fathers of you and me,That knew how to think and thrive? But the song of Beauty and Art and LoveIs simply an utterly stinking song,To double you up and drag you down,And damn your soul alive.

“Take some more rum,” concluded the Irish officer, affably, “and let’s hear your song at last.”

With the gravity inseparable from the deep conventionality of country people, Mr. Pump unfolded the paper on which he had recorded the only antagonistic emotion that was strong enough in him to screw his infinite English tolerance to the pitch of song. He read out the title very carefully and in full.

“Song Against Grocers, by Humphrey Pump, sole proprietor of ‘The Old Ship,’ Pebblewick. Good Accommodation for Man and Beast. Celebrated as the House at which both Queen Charlotte and Jonathan Wilde put up on different occasions; and where the Ice-cream man was mistaken for Bonaparte. This song is written against Grocers.”

“God made the wicked Grocer,For a mystery and a sign,That men might shun the awful shops,And go to inns to dine;Where the bacon’s on the rafterAnd the wine is in the wood,And God that made good laughterHas seen that they are good.“The evil-hearted GrocerWould call his mother ‘Ma’am,’And bow at her and bob at her,Her aged soul to damn;And rub his horrid hands and ask,What article was next;Though mortis in articulo,Should be her proper text.“His props are not his childrenBut pert lads underpaid,Who call out ‘Cash!’ and bang about,To work his wicked trade;He keeps a lady in a cage,Most cruelly all day,And makes her count and calls her ‘Miss,’Until she fades away.“The righteous minds of inn-keepersInduce them now and thenTo crack a bottle with a friend,Or treat unmoneyed men;But who hath seen the GrocerTreat housemaids to his teas,Or crack a bottle of fish-sauce,Or stand a man a cheese?“He sells us sands of ArabyAs sugar for cash down,He sweeps his shop and sells the dust,The purest salt in town;He crams with cans of poisoned meatPoor subjects of the King,And when they die by thousandsWhy, he laughs like anything.“The Wicked Grocer grocesIn spirits and in wine,Not frankly and in fellowship,As men in inns do dine;But packed with soap and sardinesAnd carried off by grooms,For to be snatched by Duchesses,And drunk in dressing-rooms.“The hell-instructed GrocerHas a temple made of tin,And the ruin of good inn-keepersIs loudly urged therein;But now the sands are running outFrom sugar of a sort,The Grocer trembles; for his timeJust like his weight is short.”

Captain Dalroy was getting considerably heated with his nautical liquor, and his appreciation of Pump’s song was not merely noisy but active. He leapt to his feet and waved his glass. “Ye ought to be Poet Laureate, Hump–ye’re right, ye’re right; we’ll stand all this no longer!”

He dashed wildly up the sand slope and pointed with the sign-post towards the darkening shore, where the low shed of corrugated iron stood almost isolated.

“There’s your tin temple!” he said. “Let’s burn it!”

They were some way along the coast from the large watering-place of Pebblewick and between the gathering twilight and the rolling country it could not be clearly seen. Nothing was now in sight but the corrugated iron hall by the beach and three half-built red brick villas.

Dalroy appeared to regard the hall and the empty houses with great malevolence.

“Look at it!” he said. “Babylon!”

He brandished the inn-sign in the air like a banner, and began to stride towards the place, showering curses.

“In forty days,” he cried, “shall Pebblewick be destroyed. Dogs shall lap the blood of J. Leveson, Secretary, and Unicorns–”

“Come back Pat,” cried Humphrey, “you’ve had too much rum.”

“Lions shall howl in its high places,” vociferated the Captain.

“Donkeys will howl, anyhow,” said Pump. “But I suppose the other donkey must follow.”