"How about another?" said one in a thrilling whisper.

"Take your turn," said Quimbleton. "Who's next?"

One hundred and fifty-three nominated Scotch whiskey. The order was filled without a slip. Quimbleton's face beamed above his beard like a full-blown rose. "Magnificent!" he whispered to Bleak, both of them having partaken in the second round. "If this keeps on we'll have a charge of the tight brigade."

The next round was ninety-five Jack Rose cocktails, but the audience was beginning to get out of hand. Those who had not yet been served grew restive. They saw their companions with brightened eyes and beaming faces, comparing notes as to this delicious revival of old sensations. In the impatience of some and the jubilation of others, the psychic concentration flagged a little. Then, just as Quimbleton was about to ask for the fourth round, the unforgiveable happened. Some one at the back shouted, "A glass of buttermilk!"

Miss Chuff shuddered, quivered, and opened her eyes with a tragic gasp. She slipped from the chair, and fell exhausted to the floor. Bleak ran to pick her up. Quimbleton screamed out an oath.

"The spell is broken!" he roared. "There's a spy in the room!"

At that instant a battalion of armed chuffs burst into the hall. They carried a huge hose, and in ten seconds a six-inch stream of cold water was being poured upon the bewildered psychic tipplers. Quimbleton and Bleak, seizing the girl's helpless form, escaped by a door at the back of the platform.

"Heaven help us," cried Bleak, distraught. "What shall we do? This means the firing squad unless we can escape."

Theodolinda feebly opened her eyes.

"O horrible," she murmured. "The spirit of buttermilk—I saw him—he threatened me—"

"The horse!" cried Quimbleton, with fierce energy. "The Bishop's horse—in the stable!"

They ran wildly to the rear quarters of the Home, where they found the Bishop's famous charger whinneying in his stall. All three leaped upon his back. In the confusion, amid the screams of the tortured inmates and the cruel cries of the invading chuffs, they made good their escape.

Every one of the wretched inmates captured at the psychic carouse was immediately sentenced to six months' hard listening on the Chautauqua circuit. But even during this brutal punishment their memories returned with tenderest reminiscence to the experience of that afternoon. As one of them said, "it was a real treat." And although Quimbleton had plainly stated the relation in which he stood to Theodolinda Chuff, she had no less than two hundred and ten proposals of marriage, by mail, from those who had attended the seance.



CHAPTER VII

THE DECANTERBURY PILGRIMS

Through a dreary waste of devastated country a little group of refugees plodded in silence. All about them lay fields and orchards which had been torn and uprooted as though by some unbelievable whirlwind. At a watering trough along the road they halted, facing the sign:

COMPULSORY DRINKING STATION

Adults, 1 quart Children, 1 pint

THIRST FORBIDDEN BETWEEN HERE AND THE NEXT STATION

Under the eye of an armed chuff, who watched them suspiciously, the wretched wanderers drank the water in silence, but without enthusiasm. Then they shuffled on down the road.

At the front of the small procession a slender girl, in a much-stained sports suit, rode on a tall black horse. Beside the horse trudged a bulky man in a grotesque garb of dirty lavender quilting. A matted whisk of coarse beard drooped from his chin, but his blue eyes burned brightly in his sunburnt face. Over his shoulder he carried a six foot length of brass railing, a small folding table, and a shabby knapsack.

Behind the horse limped a lean, dyspeptic-colored individual in a Palm Beach suit that would have been a social death-warrant on the shining sands of its name-place. There is no form of sartorialism that takes on such utter humility as a Palm Beach suit gone wrong. This particular vestment was spotted with ink, with mud, with fruit-juices, with every kind of stain; it was punctured with perforations that might have been due to fallen tobacco tinder. The individual within this travesty of clothing was painfully propelling a wheelbarrow, in which rode (not without complaint) a substantial woman and a baby. An older child trailed from the Palm Beach coat-tail.

These jovial vagabonds, as the reader will have suspected, were no other than Theodolinda Chuff, Virgil Quimbleton, and the family of Bleaks.

Affairs had gone steadily from bad to worse. After the incident—or, as some blasphemously called it, the miracle—at Cana, Bishop Chuff had commenced ruthless warfare. Enraged beyond control by the perfidy of his daughter, he had sent out the armies of the Pan-Antis to wreak vengeance on every human enterprise that could be suspected of complicity in the matter of fermentation. Not only had the countryside been laid waste, but the printing press had been abolished and all publishing trades were now a thing of the past. This, of course, had thrown Dunraven Bleak out of a job. He had retrieved his wife and children from the seashore, and in company with Quimbleton and Miss Chuff, and the noble and faithful horse John Barleycorn, they had led a nomad existence for weeks, flying from bands of pursuing chuffs, and bravely preaching their illicit gospel of good cheer in the face of terrible dangers.

The girl, who was indeed the Jeanne d'Arc of their cause, was their sole means of subsistence. It was her psychic powers that made it possible for them, in a furtive way, to give their little entertainments. Their method was, on reaching a village where there were no chuff troops, to distribute certain handbills which Bleak had been able to get printed by stealth. These read thus:

THE SIX QUIMBLETONS or The Decanterbury Pilgrims In Their Artistic Revival Of Old and Entertaining Customs, Tableaux Vivants Vanished Arts, Folklore Games and Conjuring Tricks Such as The Drinking of Healths, Toasts, Nosepainting, The Lifted Elbow, Let's Match For It, Say When, Light or Dark? and This One's On Me. COMMUNION WITH DEPARTED SPIRITS Please Do Not Leave Before the Hat Goes Round

Having taken their station in some not too prominent place, Bleak would mount the wheelbarrow and play Coming Through the Rye on a jew's-harp. This, his sole musical accomplishment, was exceedingly distasteful to him: all his training had been in the anonymity of a newspaper office, and he felt his public humiliation bitterly.

When a crowd had gathered, Quimbleton would ascend the barrow and make a brief speech (of a highly inflammatory and treasonable nature) after which he would set up the small table and the brass rail, produce a white apron and a tumbler from his knapsack, and introduce Theodolinda for an alcoholic trance. It was found that the public entered into the spirit of these seances with great gusto, and often the collection taken up was gratifyingly large. However, the life was hazardous in the extreme, and they were in perpetual danger of meeting secret service agents. It was only by repeated private trances of their own that they were able to keep up their morale.

Reaching a bend in the way, where a grove of trees cast a grateful shade, the Decanterbury Pilgrims halted to rest. Quimbleton helped Theodolinda down from her horse, and they all sat sadly by the roadside.

"Theo," said Quimbleton, as he wiped his brow, "do you think, dear, that if I set up the table you could give us a little trance? Upon my soul, I am nearly done in."

"Darling Virgil," said Theodolinda, "I really can't do it. You know I've given you four trances already this morning, and you have communed with the soul of Wurzburger at least a dozen times. Then, as you know, I have put Mr. Bleak in touch with a julep six or seven times. All that takes it out of me dreadfully. I really must consider my art a bit: I don't want to be a mere psychic bartender, a clairvoyant distiller."

"You are quite right, dear girl," said Quimbleton remorsefully. "But I couldn't help thinking how agreeable a psychical seidel of dark beer would be just now. You are our little Jeanne Dark, you know," he added, with an atrocious attempt at pleasantry.

"That's all very well," said Bleak (who preferred julep to beer), "but if we don't look out Miss Chuff will go into a permanent trance. I've noticed it has been harder and harder to bring her back from these states of suspended sobriety. You know, if we crowd these phantasms of the grape upon her too fast, she might pass over altogether, and stay behind the bar for good. We are deeply indebted to Miss Chuff for her adorable willingness to act as a kind of bunghole into the spirit world, but we don't want her to slip through the hole and evaporate."

"Safety thirst!" cried Quimbleton, raising his loved one to his lips.

"We can't go on like this indefinitely," continued Bleak. "I don't mind being a mountebank, but mountebanks don't pay much interest. I'd rather be a safe deposit somewhere out of Chuff's reach. There's too much drama in this way of living."

"I can stand the drama as long as I get the drams," said the unrepentant Quimbleton.

"Well, I won't stand it!" exclaimed Mrs. Bleak, shrilly. "Look what your insane schemes have brought us to! You and my husband seem to find comfort in your psychical toping, but I don't notice any psychical millinery being draped about for Miss Chuff or myself. And look at the children! They're simply in rags. If you really loved Miss Chuff I should think you'd be ashamed to use her as a spiritual demijohn! You've alienated her from her father, and reduced my husband from managing editor of a leading paper to managing jew's-harpist of a gang of psychic bootleggers." She burst into angry tears.

Quimbleton groaned, and turned a ghastly fade upon Bleak.

"It's quite true," he said.

In the excitement Miss Chuff had turned very pale.

"Virgil," she said faintly, "I believe I feel a trance coming on."

"Great grief!" cried the harassed leader. "Not now, my darling! I think I see some troops in the distance. Quick, try to concentrate your mind on lemonade, on buttermilk, on beef tea!"

Happily this crisis passed. Theodolinda had presence of mind enough to pull out a little photograph of her father from some secret hiding place, and by putting her mind on it shook off the dominion of the other world.

Quimbleton spoke with anguished remorse.

"Mrs. Bleak is right. I've been trying to hide it from myself, but I can do so no longer. This monkey business—what we might call this gorilla warfare—must stop. We will only land in front of a firing squad. I have only one idea, which I have been saving in case all else failed."

The Bleaks were too discouraged to comment, but Theodolinda smiled bravely.

"Virgil dear," she said, "your ideas are always so original. What is it?"

Quimbleton stood up, unconsciously putting one foot on the portable brass rail which rested on its six-inch legs by the roadside. His tired eyes shone anew with characteristic enthusiasm. It was plain that he imagined himself before a large and sympathetic audience.

"My friends," he said, "the secret of eloquence is to know your facts—or, as the all-powerful Chuff would amend it, to know your tracts. One fact, I think I may say, is plain. The jig is up, or (more literally), the jag is up. I can see now that alcohol will never be more than a memory. Principalities and powers are in league against us. If the malt has lost its favor, wherewith shall it be malted?"

He paused a moment, as though expecting a little applause, and Theodolinda murmured an encouraging "Here, here."

With rekindled eye he resumed.

"Alcohol, I say, will never be more than a memory. Yet even a memory must be kept alive. The great tradition must not die. For the very sake of antiquarian accuracy, for the instruction of posterity, some exact record must be kept of the influence of alcohol upon the human soul. How can this be preserved? Not in books, not in the dead mummies of a museum. No, not in dead mummies, indeed, but in living rummies. That brings me to my great idea, which I have long cherished.

"I propose, my dear friends, that in some appropriate shrine, surrounded by all the authentic trappings and utensils, some chosen individual be maintained at the public charge, to exhibit for the contemplation of a drouthing world the immortal flame of intoxication. He will be known, without soft concealments, as the Perpetual Souse. In his little bar, served by austere attendants, he will be kept in a state of gentle exhilaration. Nothing gross, nothing unseemly, I insist! In that state of sweetly glowing mind and heart, in that ineffable blossoming of all the nobler qualities of human dignity, this priest of alcohol will represent and perpetuate the virtues of the grape. Booze, in the general sense, will have gone West, but ah how fair and ruddy a sunset will it have in the person of this its vicar! There he will live, visited, studied, revered, a living memorial. There he will live, perpetually in a mellow fume of bliss, trailing clouds of glory, as if—as some poet says,

As if his whole vocation Were endless intoxication.

And now, my friends—not to weary you with the minor details of this far-reaching proposal—let me come to the point. For so gravely responsible a post, for an office so representative of the ideals and ambitions of millions, the choice cannot be cast haphazard. The choice must fall upon one qualified, confirmed, consecrated to this end. This deeply significant office must be conferred by the people themselves. It must be conferred by popular election. Candidates must be nominated, must stump the country explaining their qualifications. And let me say that, upon looking over the whole field, I see one man, who by the jury of his peers—or shall I say by the jury of his beers?—is supremely fitted for this post. It is my intention to nominate Mr. Dunraven Bleak for the office of Perpetual Souse."

There was a moment of complete silence while his hearers considered the vast scope of this remarkable suggestion. It is only fair to say that Mr. Bleak's face had at first lighted up, but then he glanced at his wife and his countenance grew pinched. He spoke hastily:

"A very generous thought, my dear fellow; but I feel that you would be far more competent for this form of public service than I could hope to be."

"Your modesty does you credit," replied Quimbleton, "but you forget that owing to my relation with Miss Chuff I shall happily be precluded from the necessity of entering public life for this purpose."

"And what, pray," said Mrs. Bleak with distinct asperity, "is to become of me and the children if Mr. Bleak is elected to this preposterous office?"

"I was coming to that," said Quimbleton eagerly. "It would be arranged, of course, that the Perpetual Souse would be granted a liberal salary for his family expenses; you and your delightful children would be maintained at the public expense in a suitable bungalow nearby, with a private family entrance into the official cellars. Your rank, of course, would be that of Perpetual Spouse."

"My good Quimbleton," said Bleak, somewhat bitterly, "this is a fascinating vision indeed, but how can it be accomplished? How would you ever get such a scheme accepted by Bishop Chuff, who will never forgive you for kidnaping his daughter? You are building bar-rooms in Spain, my dear chap; you are blowing mere soap-bubbles."

"And why not?" cried his friend. "Bishop Chuff has called me a soap-box orator. At any rate, a man who stands upon a soap-box is nearer heaven by several inches than the man who stands upon the ground."

Theodolinda's face sparkled with the impact of an idea.

"Come," she said, "it's not impossible after all. I have a thought. We'll offer Father an armistice and talk things over with him. He doesn't know what straits we're in, and maybe we can bring him to terms. He was very badly scared by those gooseberry bombs, and maybe we can bluff him into a concession."

"If we had had any luck," said Quimbleton, "we would have blown him into a concussion. But anyway, that's a bonny scheme. We'll grant him a truce. Bleak, you're a newspaper man, just get hold of the United Press and let them know the armistice is signed."

Bleak smiled wanly at the thrust.

"All right," he said. "Let's go. But what's your idea, Miss Chuff? We must have something to base negotiations on."

"Wait and see," she cried gayly. "We'll talk it over as we go along."

Mrs. Bleak aroused her children, who had fallen asleep, and climbed back into the wheelbarrow.

"I don't know that I approve of that scheme of making Dunraven the Perpetual Souse," she remarked. "I can imagine what my poor mother would say about it if she were living. She came of fine old Kentucky stock, and it would humiliate her deeply to know to what a level we had been reduced."

"My dear Mrs. Bleak," said Quimbleton, as he hoisted his betrothed into the saddle and the pilgrims began to move, "I know of a great deal of good old Kentucky stock that has had a far worse fate than that in these tragic years."



CHAPTER VIII

WITH BENEFIT OF CLERGY

Through the sullen streets of the terrorized city Miss Chuff, Quimbleton and Bleak proceeded toward the great building where the Pan-Antis had their headquarters. They had left Mrs. Bleak, the children and the horse at a quiet soda-fountain in the suburbs. After repeated application over the wireless telephone, the terrible Bishop—the Prohibishop, as Quimbleton called him—had agreed to grant them an audience, and had accorded them safe-conduct through the chuff troops. Even so, their progress was difficult. Every few hundred yards they were halted and subjected to curt inquiry. Men and women who had heard of their gallant struggle against fearful odds pressed forward in an attempt to seize their hands, to embrace and applaud them, but these evidences of enthusiasm were sternly repressed by the chuffs.

Bleak was frankly nervous as they approached the Chuff Building.

"What line of talk are we going to adopt?" he asked.

"Like any self-respecting line," replied Quimbleton, "Ours will be the shortest distance between two points. The first point is that we want to obtain something from Chuff. The second is that we have some information to give him which will be of immense value to him. This we shall hold over him as a club, to force him to concede what we want."

"And what is this club?" asked Bleak, somewhat suspicious of his friend's sanguine disposition.

"The admirable plan," said Quimbleton, "is Theodolinda's idea. She knows her father better than we do. She says that his passion is for prohibiting things. He thinks he has now prohibited everything possible. We are in a position to tell him something that still remains unprohibited. His eagerness to know what that may be will make him yield to our request."

Bleak pondered gloomily. As far as he could recall, the Prohibition Government had overlooked nothing. The quaint part of it was that some of its prohibitions, carried to their logical extreme, had curiously overleaped their mark. For instance, finding it impossible to enforce the laws against playing games on Sundays, the Government had concluded that the only way to make the Sabbath utterly immaculate was to abolish it altogether, which was done. Other laws, probably based upon genuine zeal for human welfare, had resulted in odd evasions or legal fictions. For instance, people were forbidden to miss trains. The penalty for missing a train was ten days' hard labor splitting infinitives in the government tract-factory. Rather than impose this harsh punishment on any one, good-hearted engineers would permit their trains to loiter about the stations until they felt certain no other passengers would turn up. Consequently no trains were ever on time, and the Government was forced to do away with time entirely. Another thing that was abolished was hot weather. It had been found too tedious to tilt the axis of the earth, therefore all the thermometers were re-scaled. When the temperature was really 96 degrees, the mercury registered only 70 degrees, and every one was saying how jolly cool it was for the time of year. This, of course, was careless, for there was no such thing as time or year, but still people kept on saying it. Bleak was thinking over these matters when he suddenly recalled that it was forbidden to remember things as they had been under the old regime. He pulled himself up with a start. In order to make his mind a blank he tried to imagine himself about to write a leading editorial for the Balloon. This was so successful that he did not come to earth again until they stood in the ante-room—or as Quimbleton called it, the anti-room—of the Bishop.

"Who is to be spokesman?" he said apprehensively, gazing with distaste at the angular females who were pecking at typewriters. "It would be unseemly for me to present my own claims in this project. Quimbleton, you are the one—you have the gift of the tongue."

"I would rather have the gift of the bung," whispered Quimbleton resolutely as they were ushered into the inner sanctum.

The dreaded Bishop sat at an immense ebony flat-topped desk. The room was furnished like his mind, that is to say, sparsely, and without any southern exposure. A peculiarly terrifying feature of the scene was that the top of the desk was completely bare, not a single paper lay on it. Remembering his own desk in the newspaper office, Bleak felt that this was unnatural and monstrous. He noticed a breathoscope on the mantelpiece, with its sensitive needle trembling on the scaled dial which read thus:—

As he watched the indicator oscillate rapidly on the dial, and finally subside uncertainly at zero, he thanked heaven that they had indulged in no psychic grogs that day.

The Bishop's black beard foamed downward upon the desk like a gloomy cataract. Quimbleton for a moment was almost abashed, and regretted that he had not thought to whitewash his own dingy thicket.

Bishop Chuff's piercing and cruel gaze stabbed all three. He ignored Theodolinda with contempt. His disdain was so complete that (as the unhappy girl said afterward) he seemed more like a younger brother than a father. There were no chairs: they were forced to stand. In a small mirror fastened to the edge of his desk the sneering potentate could note the dial-reading of the instrument without turning. He watched the reflected needle flicker and come to rest.

"So, Mr. Quimbleton," he said, in a harsh and untuned voice, "You come comparatively sober. Strange that you should choose to be unintoxicated when you face the greatest ordeal of your life."

The savage irony of this angered Quimbleton.

"One touch of liquor makes the whole world kin," he said. "I assure you I have no desire to claim kinship with your bitter and intolerant soul."

"Ah?" said the Bishop, with mock politeness. "You relieve me greatly. I had thought you desired to claim me as father-in-law."

"Oh, Parent!" cried Theodolinda; "How can you be so cruel? Sarcasm is such a low form of humor."

"I am not trying to be humorous," said the Bishop grimly. "You, who were once the apple of my eye, are now only an apple of discord. You, whom I considered such a promising child, are now a breach of promise. You have sucked my blood. You are a Vampire."

"The Vampire on whom the sun never sets," whispered Quimbleton to the terrified girl, encouraging her as she shrank against him.

"This is no time for jest," said the Bishop angrily. "You said you had a matter of vital import to lay before me. Make haste. And remember that you are here only on sufferance. I shall be pitiless. I shall scourge the evil principle you represent from the face of the earth."

"We do not fear your threats," said Quimbleton stoutly. "We are not alarmed by your frown."

He was, greatly, but he was sparring for time to put his thoughts in order. He started to say "Uneasy lies the head that wears a frown," which was an aphorism of his own he thought highly of, but Theodolinda checked him. She knew that her father detested puns. It was perhaps his only virtue.

"Bishop Chuff," said Quimbleton, "perhaps you are not aware of the strength and tenacity of the sentiment we represent. I assure you that if you underestimate the power of the millions of thirsty mouths that speak through us, you will rue the consequences. Trouble is brewing—"

"Neither trouble, nor anything else, is brewing nowadays," said the terrible Bishop.

Theodolinda saw that Quimbleton was losing ground by his incorrigible habit of talking before he said anything. She broke in impetuously, and explained the plan for the Perpetual Souse. Her father listened to the end with his cold, forbidding gaze, while the sensitive needle of the recording instrument on the mantel danced and wagged in agitation.

"So this is your scheme, is it?" he said. "Abandoned offspring, you deserve the gallows."

"Wait a moment," said Quimbleton. "Now comes the other side of the argument. If you grant us this concession we in turn will put you in possession of a magnificent idea. You think that you have prohibited everything. Your vetoes cumber the earth. But there is still one thing you have forgotten to prohibit."

"What is it?" said the Bishop coldly. His hard face was unmoved, but his eyes brightened a trifle.

"There is one thing you have forgotten to prohibit," said Quimbleton solemnly. "I can hardly conceive how it escaped you. The one thing that harasses human beings over the whole civilized world. The one thing which, if you were to abolish it, would make your name, foul as that now is, blessed in the ears of men. Oh, the joy of still having something to prohibit! The unmixed bliss and high privilege of the vetoing function! I envy you, from my heart, in still having something to forbid."

The Bishop stirred uneasily in his chair. "What is it?" he said.

Quimbleton watched him with a steady and slightly annoying smile.

"I like to dwell in imagination upon your surprise when you realize what you have overlooked. It seems so simple! To abolish, prohibit, banish, and remove, at one swoop, the chief preoccupation of mankind! The simple and high-minded felicity of still having something prohibitable subject to your omnipotent legislation! But there, I dare say I am wrong. Probably you are weary of prohibiting things."

Quimbleton made a motion to his companions as though to leave the room. The Bishop leaped to his feet, with curiously mingled anger and eagerness on his face. "Stop!" he cried. "You can't mean laughter? I abolished that some weeks ago. I don't believe there is anything left—"

"How quaint it is," said Quimbleton (as though talking to himself), "that it is always the plainly obvious that eludes! But, of course, the reason you have not abolished this matter before is that to do so would wholly alter and undermine the habits of the race. Nothing would be the same as before. I daresay a good deal of misery would be caused in the long run, who knows? Ah well, it seems a pity you forgot it—"

"Hell's bells!" roared the Bishop, bringing his fist down on the desk with fury—"What is it? Let me get at it!"

"I should be sorry to marry into a profane family," was Quimbleton's reply, moving toward the door.

The Bishop chewed the end of his beard with a crunching sound. This unpleasant gesture caused a tingle to pass along Bleak's sensitive spine, already strained to painful nervous tension. The office of the Perpetual Souse hung in the balance.

"Look here," said Bishop Chuff, "If I let you have your way about the—the Permanent Exhibit, will you tell me what it is I have forgotten to prohibit?"

"With pleasure," said Quimbleton. "Will you put it down in black and white, please?"

He secured the Bishop's signature to a document giving instructions for the necessary legislation to be passed. Folding the precious paper in his pocket, Quimbleton faced the black-browed Bishop. He held Theodolinda by the hand.

"I am sorry," he said, "that I should have forgotten to bring a ring with me. If I had done so, you might have married us here and now. At least you will not refuse us your blessing?"

"Blessings have been abolished," said Chuff in a voice of exasperation. "Now inform me what it is that I have forgotten to condemn."

"Work!" cried Quimbleton, and the three ran hastily from the room.



CHAPTER IX

THE ELECTION

In the days following Quimbleton's coup Chuff was in seclusion. It was rumored that he was ill; it was rumored that the sounds of breaking furniture had been heard by the neighbors on Caraway Street. But at any rate the Bishop lived up to his word. Orders over his signature went to Congress, and vast sums of money were appropriated immediately for

The establishment and maintenance of a national park with suitable buildings and appurtenances wherein might be maintained an elected individual in a state of freedom, with access to alcoholic beverages, in order that successive generations might view for themselves the devastating effects of alcohol upon the human system.

No political campaign was ever contested with more zeal and zest than that which led up to the election of the Perpetual Souse. Life had grown rather dreary under the innumerable prohibitions of the Chuff regime, and the citizens welcomed the excitement of the campaign as a notable diversion. Quimbleton appointed himself chairman of the committee to nominate Bleak, and the editor (acting under his friend's instructions) had hardly begun to deny vigorously that he had any intention of being a candidate before he found himself plunged into a bewildering vortex of meetings, speeches, and confessions of faith. Marching clubs, properly outfitted with two-quart silk tiles and frock coats, were spatting their way plumply down the Boulevard. Torchlight processions tinted the night; ward picnics strewed the shells of hard-boiled eggs on the lawns of suburban amusement parks, while Bleak, very ill at ease, was kissing adhesive babies and autographing tissue napkins and smiling horribly as he whirled about with the grandmothers in the agony of the carrousel. More than once, reeling with the endless circuit of a painted merry-go-round charger, the perplexed candidate became so confused that he kissed the paper napkin and autographed the baby.

He found Quimbleton a stern ringleader. Virgil was not satisfied with the old-fashioned method of stumping the country from the taff-rail of a Pullman car, and insisted on strapping Bleak into the cockpit of a biplane and flying him from city to city. They would land in some central square, and the candidate, deafened and half-frozen, would stammer a few halting remarks. He felt it rather keenly that Quimbleton looked down on his lack of oratorical gift, and it was a frequent humiliation that when words did not prosper on his tongue his impatient pilot would turn on the motors and zoom off into space in the very middle of a sentence.

Nevertheless, the campaign went famously. Bleak had one considerable advantage in being comparatively unknown. He had never permitted himself the luxury of making enemies: except for a few ex-reporters who had once worked on the Balloon he had not a foe in the world. Quimbleton had been eager to import a covey of gunmen from other cities, but when these arrived there was really nothing for them to do. They were glad to accept jobs from Bishop Chuff, and were well paid for waylaying and sniping the few grapes and apples that had escaped previous pogroms.

There was only one plank in Bleak's modest platform, but he walked it so happily that it began to look like a gangplank leading onto the Ship of State. He expressed his doctrine very agreeably in his speech accepting the party nomination; though credit should be given to Theodolinda, who had assisted him by a little private seance before he addressed the convention.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said (looking as he spoke at one of the handbills announcing his candidacy for the dignity of mouthpiece of the nation)—"I issue dodgers, but I never dodge the issue. I can Take It or Let It Alone, but frankly, I prefer to Take It. I hope I speak modestly: yet candor insists that both by past training and present inclination I feel myself fitted to deal with the problems of this exalted office. If elected to this high place of trust I shall regard myself solely as the servant of the public, solely as the representative of your sovereign will. As I raise the glass or peel the lemon, I shall not act in any individual capacity. My own good cheer (I beg you to believe) will be my last thought. I shall remember, in every gesture and every gulp, that my thirst is in reality the Thirst of a Nation, delegated to me by ballot; that my laughter and song (if things should go so far) are truly the mirth and music of a proud people expressing themselves through me. I shall be at all times accessible to my fellow-men, solicitous to hear their counsel and command. Believing (as I do) in moderation, yet I should not dream of permitting private sentiment to interfere with public interest when more violent measures should seem desirable.

"I like to think, my fellow-citizens, that you have conferred this nomination upon me not wholly at random. I like to think that I am only expressing your thought when I say that many drinkers have been the worst enemies of the cause we all hold dear. The alcoholshevik and the I.W.W.—the I Wallow in Wine faction—have done much to discredit the old bland Jeffersonian toper who carried tippling to the level of a fine art. I have no patience with the doctrine of complete immersion. Ever since I was first admitted to the bar I have deplored the conduct of those violent and vulgar revelers who have brought discredit upon the loveliest, most delicate art known to man. Now, at last, by supreme wisdom, drinking is to be elevated to the dignity of a career. I like to think that I express your sentiment when I say that drinking is too precious, too subtle, too fragile a function to be entrusted to the common crowd. Therefore I heartily applaud your admirable intention of entrusting it entirely to me, and look forward with profound satisfaction to the privilege of enshrining and perpetuating in my own person the genial traditions that have clustered round the institution of Liquor. If elected, I shall endeavor to carry on the fine old rituals and pass them down unimpaired to the next incumbent. I shall endeavor to make duty a pleasure, and pleasure a duty. I shall remind myself that I am only performing the service to humanity that each one of you would willingly render if you were in my place.

"My fellow-citizens, I thank you for your amiable confidence, and am happy to accept the nomination."

There were some who criticized this speech on the ground that it was too academic. It was remembered that Mr. Bleak had at one time been a school-teacher, and his opponents were quick to raise the cry "What can a schoolmaster know about liquor?" It was said that Mr. Bleak was too scholarly, too aloof, too cold-blooded: that his interest in booze was merely philosophical, that he would be incompetent to deal with the practical problems of actual drinking: that he would surround himself with drinks that would be mere puppets, subservient entirely to his own purposes. The adherents of Jerry Purplevein, the nominee of the other party, made haste to assert that Bleak was not a drinker at all but was a tool of the Chuff machine. Jerry was a former bartender who had been pining away in the ice-cream cone business. Huge banners appeared across the streets, showing highly colored pictures of Mr. Purplevein plying his original profession, with the legend:

RALLY ROUND THE FLAGON

VOTE FOR

PURPLEVEIN

THE PRACTICAL MAN

One of the exciting features of the campaign was the sudden appearance of a Woman's Party, which launched an ably-conducted boom for a Woman Souse and nominated Miss Cynthia Absinthe as its candidate. The idea of having a woman elected to this responsible office was disconcerting to many citizens, but Miss Absinthe's record (as outlined by her publicity headquarters) compelled respect. She was reputed to have been a passionate and tumultuous consumer of sloe gin, and thousands of women in white bartenders' coats marched with banners announcing:

ABSINTHE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER VOTE FOR CYNTHIA

and

OUR SLOGAN IS SLOE GIN

For a while there was quite a probability that the male vote would be so split by Bleak and Purplevein that Miss Absinthe would come in ahead. But at the height of the campaign she was found in a pharmacy drinking a maple nut foam. After this her cause declined rapidly, and even her most ardent partisans admitted that she would never be more than an Intermittent Souse.

Purplevein's followers, in their desperate efforts to discredit Bleak, overplayed their hand (as "practical politicians" always do). The sagacious Quimbleton outmaneuvered them at every turn. Moderate drinkers rallied round Bleak. Moreover, the Bleak party had an irresistible assistant in the person of Miss Chuff, who put her trances unreservedly at Dunraven's disposal. In this way Quimbleton was able to produce his candidate before a monster mass meeting at the Opera House in a state of becoming exhilaration. This forever put an end to the rumor that Bleak was not a practical man. Miss Chuff also campaigned strenuously among the women, where Purplevein (being a bachelor) was at a disadvantage. "Vote for Bleak," cried Miss Chuff—"He has a wife to help him." Purplevein's argument that the office of Perpetual Souse should be an entirely stag affair fell dead before Theodolinda's glowing description of the Hostess House which Mrs. Bleak would conduct next door to the little temple which was to be erected by the government for the successful candidate.

Despite the exhaustion of the campaign, Bleak stood it well. Quimbleton, knowing the disastrous effects of over-confidence, kept his man at fighting edge by a little judicious pessimism now and then, and rumors of the popularity of Purplevein among the hard drinkers. Day after day Quimbleton and Miss Chuff, after a little psychic communing, would prop the editor among cushions in the big gray limousine and spin him about the city and suburbs to bow, smile, say a few automatic words and pass on. Over the car floated a big banner with the words: Let Bleak Do Your Drinking For You: He Knows How. The unhappy Purplevein, who had to do his electioneering in a state of chill sobriety, was aghast to see the beaming and gently flushed face of his rival radiating cheer. At the eleventh hour he tried to change his tactics and plastered the billboards with immense posters:

BLEAK DOESN'T NEED THE JOB—HE'S SOUSED ALREADY

This line of argument might perhaps have been powerful if adopted earlier, but by that time the agreeable vision of Bleak's ascetic features wreathed in a faintly spiritual benignance was already firmly fixed in the public imagination. The little celluloid button showing his transfigured and endearing smile was worn on millions of lapels. As one walked down the street one met that little badge hundreds of times, and the mere repetition of the tenderly exhilarated face seemed to many a citizen a beautiful and significant thing. Men are altruistic at heart. They saw that Bleak would make of this high office a richly eloquent and appealing stewardship. They were reconciled to their own abstinence in the thought that the dreams and desires of their own hearts would be so nobly fulfilled by him. Alcohol was gone forever, and perhaps it was as well. They themselves were conscious of having abused its sacred powers. But now, in the person of this chosen representative, all that was lovely and laughable in the old customs would be consecrated and enshrined forever. Men who had known Bleak in the days of his employment on the Balloon recollected that even during the cares and efforts of his profession little incidents had occurred that might have shown (had they been shrewd enough to notice) how faithfully he was preparing himself for the great responsibility destiny held concealed.

The day of the election was declared a national festival. The Chuff government, a good deal startled by the universal seriousness and enthusiasm shown in the enrollment at the primaries, was disposed (in secret) to regard the office of Perpetual Souse as a helpful compromise on a vexed question. The war against Nature had been only partially successful: indeed the chuff chief-of-staff declared that Nature had not learned her lesson yet, and that some irreconcilable berries and fruits were still waging a guerilla fermentation, thus rupturing the armistice terms. The countryside had been ravaged, all the Chautauqua lecturers were hoarse, industry was at a standstill, misery and despair were widespread. Even the indomitable Chuff himself was a little nonplussed. Better (he thought) one man indubitably, decorously, publicly, and legally drunk, than millions of citizens privily attempting to cajole raisins and apples into illicit sprightliness.

The citizens went to the polls in a mood of exalted self-denial. They knew that they were voting away their own rights, but they also knew that their private ideals would be more than realized in the legalized frenzy of their representative. Bleak, appearing on the balcony of his hotel, smiled affectionately on the loyal faces that cheered him from below. He was deeply moved. To Quimbleton (who was supporting him from behind) he said: "Their generosity is wonderful. I shall try to be worthy of their confidence. I hope I may have strength to put into practice the frustrated desires of these noble people."

The result of the polling was to be announced by a searchlight from the City Hall. A white beam sweeping eastward would mean the election of Purplevein. A white beam sweeping westward would mean the triumph of Miss Absinthe. A steady red beam cast upward toward the zenith would indicate the victory of Bleak.

At ten o'clock that night a scream of cheers burst from millions of people packed along the city streets. A clear, glowing shaft of red light leaped upward into the sky. Dunraven Bleak had been elected Perpetual Souse.

Purplevein, who was rather a decent sort, hastened to Bleak's hotel to offer his congratulations. Bleak, who was sitting quietly with Mrs. Bleak, Quimbleton and Theodolinda, greeted him calmly. Poor Purplevein was very much broken up, and Quimbleton and Theodolinda, in the goodness of their hearts, arranged a quiet little seance for his benefit. They all sat their drinking psychic Three-Star in honor of the event. As Quimbleton said, helping Purplevein back to his motor—"Hitch your flagon to a Star."



CHAPTER X

E PLURIBUS UNUM!

Virgil and Theodolinda were returning from their honeymoon, which they had spent touring in Quimbleton's Spad plane. They had been in South America most of the time, where they found charming hosts eager to console them for the tragical developments in the northern continent.

It was a superb morning in early autumn when they were flying homeward. Beneath them lay the green and level meadows of New Jersey, and the dusky violet blue of the ocean shading to a translucent olive where long ridges of foam crumbled upon pale beaches. They turned inland, flying leisurely to admire the beauty of the scene. The mounting sun spread a golden shimmer over woods and corn-stubble. White roads ran like ribbons across the landscape. Quimbleton glided gently downward, intending to skim low over the treetops so that his bride might enjoy the rich loveliness of the view.

Suddenly the great plane dipped sharply, tilted, and very nearly fell into a side-slip. Quimbleton was just able to pull her up again and climbed steeply to a safer altitude. He looked at his dashboard dials and indicators with a puzzled face. "Very queer," he said to Theodolinda through the speaking tube, "the air here has very little carrying power. It seems extraordinarily thin. You might think we were flying in a partial vacuum."

From the behavior of the plane it was evident that some curious atmospheric condition was prevailing. There seemed to be a large hole or pocket in the air, and in spite of his best efforts the pilot was unable to get on even wing. Finally, fearing to lapse into a tail spin, he planed down to make a landing. Beneath them was a beautiful green lawn surrounded by groves of trees. In the middle of this lawn they struck gently, taxied across the smooth turf, and came to a stop beneath a splendid oak. Quimbleton assisted his wife to get out, and they sat down for a few minutes' rest under the tree.

"What a heavenly spot!" cried Theodolinda, "I wonder where we are?"

"Somewhere in New Jersey," said her husband. "I don't understand what was the matter with the air. It didn't act according to Hoyle."

They gazed about them in some surprise at the opulent beauty of the scene. It seemed to be a kind of park, laid out in lawns, gardens and shrubbery, with groves of old trees here and there. A little artificial lake twinkled in a hollow.

They happened to be gazing upward when a small round ball of tawny color fell from the tree. It was a robin. Folded solidly for sleep, he fell unresisting by the flutter of a wing, turning over and over gently until he struck the turf with the tiniest of soft thuds. He bounced slightly, rolled a little distance, and settled motionless in the grass.

Quimbleton, amazed, stooped over the fallen bird, supposing it to be dead. Without lifting it from the ground he withdrew its head from under its wing. The bright eye unlidded and gazed at him sleepily. Then the bird closed its eye with a certain weary resignation, put its head back under its wing, and relaxed comfortably in the grass.

Quimbleton was no very acute student of nature, but this seemed very odd to him. And then, examining the lower limbs of the tree, he uttered an exclamation. He swung himself up into the oak and shook one of the branches. Five other birds plopped comfortably into the grass and rested as easily as the first. He examined them one by one. They were all sound asleep.

"Most amazing!" he said. "My dear, we will have to take up nature study. I am really ashamed of my ignorance. I always thought that owls were the only birds that slept by day."

Theodolinda was looking at the five small bodies. She raised one of them gently, and sniffed gingerly.

"Virgil," she said solemnly, "this is not mere slumber. These birds are drunk!"

Quimbleton was about to speak when a grasshopper went by like an airplane, zooming in a twenty-foot leap. A bee sagged along heavily in an irregular zig-zag, and a caterpillar, more agile and purposeful than any caterpillar they had ever seen, staggered swiftly across a carpet of moss.

The same thought struck them simultaneously, and at that moment Theodolinda noticed a small white signboard affixed to a tree-trunk in the grove. They ran to it, and saw in neat lettering:

TO THE PERPETUAL SOUSE, ONE MILE

"Bless me!" cried Quimbleton. "What a stroke of luck! You know old Bleak wrote us when we were in Rio that he had been installed in his temple, but he didn't say where it was. Let's toddle up and have a look at him. That's why the bus acted so queerly. No wonder: we were probably flying in alcohol vapor."

They walked through the grove and emerged upon a lawn that sloped gently upward. At the brow stood a beautiful little temple of Greek architecture. As they approached they read, carved into the marble architrave:

AEDES TEMULENTI PERPETUI E PLURIBUS UNUM

The little porch, under the marble columns, was cool and shady. A signboard said: Visiting Hours, Noon to Midnight. Quimbleton looked at his watch. "It's not noon yet," he said, "but as we're old friends I dare say he'll be willing to see us."

Pushing through a slatted swinging door of beautifully carved bronze, they found themselves in a charmingly furnished reference library. There were lounges and deep leather chairs, and ash trays for smokers. Quimbleton, who was something of a bookworm, ran his eye along the shelves. "A very neat idea," he said. "They have collected a little library of all the standard works on drink. This should be of great value to future historians and researchers."

Through another swinging door they found the central shrine.

It was circular in shape, illuminated through a clear skylight. Under the rotunda was a low, broad marble counter, surmounted by a gleaming mirror and a noble array of bottles, flasks, decanters, goblets and glasses of every size. The pale yellow of white wines, the ruby of claret, the tawny brown of port, the green and violet and rose of various liqueurs, sparkled in their appointed vessels. In front of this altar stood a three-foot mahogany bar, with its scrolled rim and diminutive brass rail, all complete. A red velvet cord hung from brass posts separated it from the open floor.

A series of mural paintings, in the vivid coloring and superb technique of Maxfield Parrish, adorned the walls of the room. They portrayed the history of Alcohol from the dawn of time down to the summer of 1919. A space for one more painting was left blank, and Mr. and Mrs. Quimbleton concluded that the artist was still at work upon the final panel.

An attendant in white was polishing glasses behind the tiny bar. He was an elderly man with a pink clean-shaven face and the initials P. S. were embroidered on the collar of his starched jacket. There was an air of evident pride in his bearing as he listened to their exclamations of admiration.

"Your first visit, sir?" he said.

"Yes," said Quimbleton. "I must confess I had no idea it would be as fine as this. What time does Mr. Bleak get in?"

"He usually opens up with a nip of Scotch about eleven-thirty," said the bartender. "Just so as to get up a little circulation before opening time. He's got a hard afternoon before him to-day," he added.

"How do you mean?" said Quimbleton.

"One of the excursion trains coming. The railroad runs cheap excursions here three days a week, and the crowds is enormous. When there's a bunch like that there's always a lot wants Mr. Bleak to take some special drink they used to be partial to, just to recall old times. Of course, being what you might call a servant of the public, he doesn't like not to oblige. But I doubt whether he's got the constitution to stand it long. The other day the Mint Julep Veterans of Kentucky held a memorial day here, and Mr. Bleak had to sink fifteen juleps to satisfy them. I tell him not to push himself too far, but he's still pretty new at the job. He likes to go over the top every day."

"Your face is very familiar," said Theodolinda. "Where have we seen you before?"

"I wondered if you'd recognize me," said the bartender. "I've shaved off my mustache. I'm Jerry Purplevein. When I was turned down in that election I thought this would be the next best thing. As a matter of fact, it's better. I don't really care for the stuff; I just like to see it around. Miss Absinthe felt the same way. She's head stewardess up to the Hostess House."

"It seems to me I used to see you somewhere in New York," said Quimbleton.

"I was head bar at the Hotel Pennsylvania," said Jerry. "We had the finest bar in the world, had only been running a couple of months when prohibition come in. They turned it into a soda fountain. Ah, that was a tragedy! But this is a grand job. Government service, you see: sure pay, tony surroundings, and what you might call steady custom. Mr. Bleak is as nice a gentleman to mix 'em for as I ever see."

"But what is this for?" asked Theodolinda, pointing to a beautiful marble cash register. "Surely Mr. Bleak doesn't have to BUY his drinks?"

"No, ma'am," said Jerry, "but he likes to have 'em rung up same as customary. He says it makes it seem more natural. Here he is now!"

Jerry flew to attention behind the three-foot bar, and they turned to see their friend enter through the bronze swinging doors.

"Well, well!" cried Bleak. "This is a delightful surprise!"

He was dressed in a lounging suit of fine texture, and while he seemed a little thinner and paler, and his eyes a little weary, he was in excellent spirits.

"Come," he said, "you're just in time for a bite of lunch. Jerry, what's on the counter to-day?"

Jerry bustled proudly over to the free-lunch counter, whipped off the steam-covers, and disclosed a fragrant joint of corned beef nestling among cabbages and boiled potatoes. With the delight of the true artist he seized a long narrow carving knife, gave it a few passes along a steel, and sliced off generous portions of the beef onto plates bearing the P. S. monogram. This they supplemented with other selections from the liberally supplied free-lunch counter. Soft, crumbling orange cheese, pickles, smoked sardines, chopped liver, olives, pretzels—all the now-forgotten appetizers were laid out on broad silver platters.

"I wish I could offer you a drink," said Bleak, "but as you know, it would be unconstitutional. With your permission, I shall have to have something. My office hours begin shortly, and some one might come in."

He took up his station at the little bar behind the velvet cord, and slid his left foot onto the miniature rail. Jerry, with the air of an artist about to resume work on his favorite masterpiece, stood expectant.

"A little Scotch, Jerry," said Bleak.

In the manner reminiscent of an elder day Jerry wiped away imaginary moisture from the mahogany with a deft circular movement of a white cloth. Turning to the gleaming pyramid of glassware, he set out the decanter of whiskey, a small empty glass, and a twin glass two-thirds full of water. His motions were elaborately careless and automatic, but he was plainly bursting with joy to be undergoing such expert and affectionate scrutiny.

Bleak poured out three fingers of whiskey, and held up the baby tumbler.

"Here's to the happy couple!" he cried, and drank it in one swift, practiced gesture. He then swallowed about a tablespoonful of the water. Jerry removed the utensils, again wiped the immaculate bar, and rang the cashless cash-register. The Perpetual Souse smiled happily.

"That's how it's done," he said. "Do you remember?"

"We're just back from South America," said Quimbleton.

"Some of the boys from the old Balloon office were in here the other day," said Bleak. "I'm afraid it was rather too much for them—in an emotional way, I mean. I tossed off a few for their benefit, and one of them—the cartoonist he used to be, perhaps you remember him—fainted with excitement."

"Well, how do you like the job?" said Quimbleton.

Bleak did not answer this directly. Making an apology to Jerry and promising to be back in a few minutes, he escorted his visitors round the temple and gave them some of the picture postcards of himself that were sold to souvenir hunters at five cents each. He showed them the cafeteria for the convenience of visitors, the Hostess House (where they found Mrs. Bleak comfortably installed), the ice-making machinery, the private brewery, and the motor-truck used to transport supplies. In a corner of the garden they found the children playing.

"It's a good thing the children enjoy playing with empty bottles," said Bleak. "It's getting to be quite a problem to know what to do with them. I'm using some of them to make a path across the lawn, bury them bottom up, you know.

"But you ask how I like it? I would never admit it before Jerry, because the good fellow expects more of me than I am able to fulfill, but as a matter of fact this is hardly a one-man job. There ought to be at least seven of us, each to go on duty one day a week. No—you see, being a kind of government museum, I don't even get Sundays off because lots of people can only get here that day. Next after Mount Vernon and Independence Hall, I get more visitors than any other national shrine. And almost all of them expect me to have a go at their favorite drink while they're watching me. Being what you might call the most public spirited man in the country, I have to oblige them as much as possible. But I doubt whether I shall be a candidate for reelection.

"I think the government has rather overestimated my capacity," he continued. "They import a shipload of stuff from abroad every month, and send an auditor here to check over my empties. I've been hard put to it to get away with all the stuff. I've had to fall back on your old plan of using wine to irrigate the garden. It's had rather a dissipating effect on the birds and insects, though. Really, you ought to spend an evening here some time. The birds sing all night long: they have to sleep it off in the morning. A robin with a hang-over is one of the funniest things in the world."

"We saw one!" cried Theodolinda. "He was more than hanging over—he had fallen right off!"

"There's a butterfly here," said Bleak—"Rather a friend of mine, who can give a bumble bee the knock-out after he gets his drop of rum. I've seen him chase a wasp all over the lot."

From the temple came the sound of chimes striking twelve, and down in the valley they heard the whistle of a train.

"There's the excursion train leaving Souse Junction," said Bleak. "I must get back to the bar!"

They returned to the shrine, and Bleak entered his little enclosure.

"Jerry," he said, "the crowd will soon be here. I must get busy. What do you recommend?"

"Better stick to the Scotch," said Jerry, and put the decanter on the mahogany. Bleak drank two slugs hastily, and turned to his friends with an almost wistful air.

"Come again and stay longer," he said. "I see so many strangers, I get homesick for a friendly face." He called Quimbleton aside. "Does Mrs. Quimbleton keep up her trances?" he whispered.

"Not recently," said Virgil. "You see, in South America there was no necessity—but when we get settled—"

"You are a lucky fellow," whispered Bleak. "All the enjoyment without any of the formalities!" And he added aloud, grasping their hands, "Next time, come in the evening. A man in my line of work is hardly at his best before nightfall."

As they walked back to the plane, Mr. and Mrs. Quimbleton saw the excursionists, a thousand or so, hastening through the park on foot and in huge sight-seeing cars where men with megaphones were roaring comments. One group of pedestrians bore a large banner lettered EGG NOG MEMORIAL ASSOCIATION OF CAMDEN, N. J.

"Poor Mr. Bleak!" said Theodolinda. "On top of all that Scotch!"

When they took the air again they circled over the temple at a safe height. They could see the crowd gathered densely round the little white columns. Virgil shut off the motor for a moment, and even at that distance they could hear the sound of cheers.



CHAPTER XI

IT'S A LONG WORM THAT HAS NO TURNING

Bishop Chuff sat sourly in his office and sighed for more worlds to canker. Round the room stood the tall filing cases containing card indexes of prohibited offences, and he looked gloomily over the crowded drawers in the vain hope of finding something that had been overlooked. He pulled out a drawer at random—Schedule K-36, Minor Social Offenses—and ran his embittered eye over a card. It was marked Conversational Felonies, and began thus:

Arguing Blandishing Buffoonery Contradicting Demurring Ejaculating Exaggerating Facetiousness Giggling Hemming and Hawing Implying Insisting Jesting

Each item also referred to another card on which the penalty was noted and legal test cases summarized.

"No," he brooded, "there is nothing left."

Even the most loyal of the Bishop's Staff admitted that he was far from well, and it was decided that he ought to take a vacation. He himself concurred in this, and as the home resorts were no longer places of mirth and glee, he determined to go to Europe. This would have the added advantage of enabling him to spend some time conferring with prohibition leaders abroad as to ways and means of converting Europe to his schemes of reform. Everyone in the office showed genuine unselfishness in making plans for the Bishop's vacation, and he was urged to stay away as long as he felt he could be spared. Europe, too, was much excited over the prospect of his coming, and the British prime minister was questioned on the subject in the House of Commons. For his entertainment on the voyage a set of twelve beautiful folio volumes, bound in black morocco, were prepared. They contained a digest of prohibition legislation which Chuff had been instrumental in having put on the statutes. For the first time in years the Bishop was cheered as he passed about the streets, and he realized that he had never known how popular he was until it was announced that he was going away.

But still he was not content. One morning, not long before the date set for his sailing, he sat gloomily at his desk. He was engaged in making his will, and had found to his secret bitterness that after bequeathing a few personal trinkets to the office staff there was really no one to whom he could leave the bulk of his misfortune. Theodolinda, of course, he had quite cut off from his estate. He only knew that she was living somewhere with the degraded Quimbleton, carrying on a little psychic tavern which no laws could reach, in a state of criminal happiness.

From the street, far beneath his open window, he heard the clamor of a police patrol and leaned eagerly over the sill in the hope of seeing something that would cheer his black mood. But it was only a man being arrested for leaning against a lamp-post—a rather common offence at that time, for most of the normal occupations of the citizens had been prohibited, and they mooned about the highways in a state of listless discontent. But then, farther down the channel of the street, he saw something that caught his eye. A group of people were marching with flags and signs toward the railway station. SATURDAY SCHOOL PICNIC TO SOUSE TEMPLE, he read on a banner. He noticed that in spite of all the laws against smiling in public, these people bore a look of suppressed merriment. They were obviously out for a good time. A sudden thought struck him.

That afternoon, in impenetrable disguise, the Bishop paid his first visit to the Temple of Dunraven Bleak.

The next morning, when his subordinates came to see him about the final plans for his departure, they were horrified to find him sitting at his desk wearing in the recesses of his beard what would have been called (on any other man) a smile.

"I have changed my mind," he said. "I am not going away."

They cried out in amazement, and pointed out to him how sorely in need of relaxation he was.

"I am planning relaxation," he said, and that was all they could get out of him.

Later in the day a confidential messenger was dispatched to the private printing press of the Chuff Organization, bearing the text of a poster which was found broadcast over the whole country a few days later. It ran thus:

AT THE NEXT ELECTION

For Perpetual Souse

VOTE FOR CHUFF

The People's Friend



THE END