“You beg to request!” bawled O'Pan. “You beg! You request! When the whole elegant world is here to be took. Are ye a man or a forked gate post? Does the bee beg? Does he request? Does he sind a letter b' post to the Primulus, sayin', ‘Dear Madam, I beg to request that b' return y' will deliver f.o.b., c.o.d., an' p.d.q., ten noggins of nectar an' a peck uv pollen at the regular market price, plus clearin' charges?' Not by a pig's pink ear, he don't,” shouted this O'Pan. “He jest straps on his swag-bags, picks up his scrapers an' takes off on a smash-an'-grab raid. It's nectar or nothing. You, with y' beggin' and scrapin'—y'r buyin' an' sellin'—y'r lead-headed hair-pins an' two-way pot lids! Commerce, is it? Have y'r ever bought or sold anything worthy of y'r cunning? Have y'r ever bought a sunset with its crimson centre, and the magenta edgin's of it, an' its saffron trimmings? Have ye ever chaffered for rivers with their fine keenin' songs that mind ye of the most comfortin' wake that ever cheered sorrow? Have ye got tinned mountain breezes in y'r store or bottled bellbirds' songs? Have ye bought an' sold th' spirit of the open that is as quick to elude ye page 35 as the glint on a trout's fin? Have ye traded the sad joyfulness of a night-wind in pines, or the stomp of a wee rabbit's foot? Have ye a willow shoot in stock that's baby-green on the stem an' pinkin' like a calf's nose at the end? Can ye lay y'r hands on a bale uv cumulus cloud that's like soapsuds from the sky-god's bath tub? Or fan-tails' eggs like starched bubbles, or gully stones snug-wrapped in moss? Jumpin' hobgoblins! Ye should take shame on y'self, a big fine strappin' fellow like ye are t' be skidoodlin' about with bales an' barrels of worthless jim-cracks that wouldn't fetch a dead leaf at a pixies' auction. Now I could show ye a thing or two out there.” He nods towards the hills beyond the gas works. “There's things out there that'd wake ye into thrue dreams so ye'd feel shame on y'r breeks an y'r hair parted in th' middle. There's things out there that's free. Y' couldn't buy them with all the gold that ever drove a man to expinsive misery an' iligant dyspepsy. An' they're—all—free,” whispers this O'Pan hoarsely. “But ye must escape—flee from the blessings uv civilisation under which ye groan.”