Tradition

Finch's stout is good no doubt, From either wood or bottle. Their bitter ale can never fail To please the thirsty throttle. Their rum and wine are very fine; Their gin will make you frisky. But never draught was ever Quaffed To equal Finch's Whiskey.

As London topers know, these lines are the doggerel oriflamme of that immemorial public house, "Finch's in the Strand." Recently Death pounced upon the great black tomcat which has dozed of a morning these many years atop the bar. Bleary bibbers were inconsolable. Mournfully they protested that without the tomcat Finch's would not be Finch's. . . .

Resourceful, sage, the proprietor at once secured a black tomkitten. Patient, he began to train it to doze upon the bar and uphold the traditions of the house.