The Flying Inn. G. K. Chesterton

be her proper text.

      “His props are not his children

      But 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-keepers

      Induce them now and then

      To crack a bottle with a friend,

      Or treat unmoneyed men;

      But who hath seen the Grocer

      Treat housemaids to his teas,

      Or crack a bottle of fish-sauce,

      Or stand a man a cheese?

      “He sells us sands of Araby

      As sugar for cash down,

      He sweeps his shop and sells the dust,

      The purest salt in town;

      He crams with cans of poisoned meat

      Poor subjects of the King,

      And when they die by thousands

      Why, he laughs like anything.

      “The Wicked Grocer groces

      In spirits and in wine,

      Not frankly and in fellowship,

      As men in inns do dine;

      But packed with soap and sardines

      And carried off by grooms,

      For to be snatched by Duchesses,

      And drunk in dressing-rooms.

      “The hell-instructed Grocer

      Has a temple made of tin,

      And the ruin of good inn-keepers

      Is loudly urged therein;

      But now the sands are running out

      From sugar of a sort,

      The Grocer trembles; for his time

      Just 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.”

      And loading and untethering the quadruped, he began to lead him along.