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.