Rather late one Saturday evening, Bacchus walked into the ‘Red Lion
Inn,’ at the corner of Rample Street. He said nothing, but looked at the
landlord, who, on his part, was trying to discover the ‘company’
(meaning rank or station) of the new customer; so that he should know
whether to open the door of the Private Bar or Best Room, or wave his
hand in the direction of the Taproom: this is the great problem and test
for all inn-keepers in England.
The landlord was still puzzling his brains, when the god spoke in a
rich, mellow voice: ‘Happy mortal, let us drink and sing together, and
talk of the laughing glories of the world. See! I will garland thy brow
with leaves of vine.’ And he stepped forward.
The landlord recoiled hastily. ‘No you don’t,’ he snarled, ‘you get
nothing ’ere. Outside.’
The god did not move, so the landlord grew angry and cried: ‘Outside I
say! ’Ere Bill! Jack! Throw ’im out!’
Bacchus, taken by surprise, was immediately flung through the swing
doors, landing at the feet of a policeman outside.
On Monday, the god was fined many shillings for being drunk and
disorderly, but fortunately no one in the police-court recognised him,
for that morning he was dressed in an old suit and wore a cloth cap and
red scarf, so that he looked like one of those men who shave only on
Saturday afternoons.