nceit, a fire of superstition and crass ignorance, but a fire to be
doubted of no man who looked upon it.

When he spoke his voice was harsher, angrier, more insulting than it
had been before. He spoke, too, in a hurry, tumbling his words one upon
another as though he were afraid that he had little mortal time left to
him and must make the most of what he had got.

From the first he was angry, rating the men of Skeaton as they had
never been rated before. And they liked it. They even revelled in it;
it did them no harm and at the same time tickled their skins. Sometimes
a preacher at the Methodist Chapel had rated them, but how mild and
halting a scolding compared with the fury of this little man. As he
continued they settled into their seats with the conviction that this
was the best free show that they had ever enjoyed in all their lives.
They had been afraid at first that it would not keep up its interest.
They had agreed with one another that they would go in "just for a
quarter of an hour to see what it was like." Now they were willing that
it should continue all night.

"What came ye out for to see?" he screamed at them. "Came out to see?
Ye didn't come out at all. None of you. That's what I've come to tell
you. For years you've been leading your lazy, idle, self-indulgent
lives, eating and drinking, sleeping, fornicating, lying with your
neighbours' wives, buying and selling, living like hogs and swine. And
is it for want of your being told? Not a bit of it. You are warned
again and again and again. Every day gives you signs and wonders had
you got eyes to see them and you will not see. Well, be it on your own
heads. Why should I care for your miserable, shrivelled-up, parched
little souls? Why should I care when I watch you all, with your hanging
stomachs and your double chins, marching straight into such a hell as
you've never conceived of. I know what's coming to you. I know what's
in store for those well-filled stomachs of yours. I can see you
writhing and screaming and wailing, 'Why didn't somebody tell us? Why
didn't somebody tell us?' Somebody has told you. Somebody's telling you
now. And will you listen? Not a bit of it. You'll have heard the music
to-night, the drums and the trumpets, you'll have joined in the
singing, and to-night you'll go back and tell your friends: 'Yes, we
had a fine evening. You ought to go. It's worth while and costs you
nothing.' And to-morrow you will have forgotten everything