“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.

“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.”

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.”