The Member of Parliament for West Churchling had walked far, and, losing
his way in the darkness, came to the World’s End. There he spied the
Hostel, where, round a bright fire, were seated the three Watchers,
Arshel of the Twisted Nose, Zanoah of the Bright Hair, and the other
whose name I can never remember.
They gave him greeting, and he sat down and warmed his hands by the
fire.
Presently, Arshel turned to him and said, ‘Sing us a song.’
The Member of Parliament said with dignity, ‘I cannot sing.’
The three Watchers sighed and looked at him reproachfully.
‘Then dance for us,’ said Zanoah, picking up a little pipe.
‘I cannot dance,’ returned the Member of Parliament sadly. The three
Watchers sighed more deeply.
‘Then tell us a tale,’ said the one whose name I can never remember. The
Politician pondered for a moment, then began:
‘At the last General Election it was decided that our Party should
appeal to the country to support those studied and careful reforms
necessary from time to time in an enlightened community like ours.
Questions of Tariff, Extension of the Franchise, Disestablishment of the
Church, Free Commercial Education for the Masses, were to be the
pillars by which our Party should stand or fall. I myself----’
‘It is too long,’ cried Arshel.
‘It is a poor tale,’ cried Zanoah.
‘It is the worst tale I have ever heard,’ cried the one whose name I can
never remember, ‘and you are no company for us.’
So they thrust the Member of Parliament for West Churchling out into the
cold night.