“And carled the Crescent,” muttered Dalroy.
“And you can’t call Dr. Moole a parson either,” went on Mr. Humphrey Pump, polishing industriously. “Why, they say he’s a sort of atheist, or what they call an agnostic, like Squire Brunton who used to bite elm trees by Marley. The grand folks have these fashions, Captain, but they’ve never lasted long that I know of.”
“I think it’s serious this time,” said his friend, shaking his big red head. “This is the last inn on this coast, and will soon be the last inn in England. Do you remember the ‘Saracen’s Head’ in Plumsea, along the shore there?”
“I know,” assented the innkeeper. “My aunt was there when he hanged his mother; but it’s a charming place.”
“I passed there just now; and it has been destroyed,” said Dalroy.
“Destroyed by fire?” asked Pump, pausing in his gun-scrubbing.
“No,” said Dalroy, “destroyed by lemonade. They’ve taken away its license or whatever you call it. I made a song about it, which I’ll sing to you now!” And with an astounding air of suddenly revived spirits, he roared in a voice like thunder the following verses, to a simple but spirited tune of his own invention:
“The Saracen’s Head looks down the lane,
Where we shall never drink wine again;
For the wicked old Women who feel well-bred