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To their amazement, they saw the white banner of the Pan-Antis floating on one of the towers of the building, and the grounds about the Home blackened with a moving throng. They hurried back to Quimbleton's hiding place, and found him already sitting up and attacking the shrimp salad. Bleak courteously averted his eyes from the affectionate embrace of the lovers.
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 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." Virgil and Theodolinda were returning from their honeymoon, which they had spent touring in Quimbleton's Spad plane.
The cigar on the opposite side of the little table glowed rosily several times, and then Quimbleton's voice resumed, in a deep undertone. "It is necessary to tell you," he said, "that the Corporation was founded a number of years ago, long before the events of the fatal year 1919 and the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution.
He clapped it onto his face and beamed hopefully. "Now, if there were some way of getting rid of this tell-tale uniform " They discussed this problem at some length, sitting in the sheltered bowl of sand, while Quimbleton finished his lunch. Bleak's suggestion of stitching together a sort of Robinson Crusoe suit of rhododendron leaves did not meet Quimbleton's approval.
He had taken Quimbleton's word seriously, and with his usual enterprise had rented a roof overlooking the Boulevard, on which several members of the Balloon staff were prepared to deal with any startling events that might occur. A battery of telephones had been installed on the house-top; Bleak himself sat with apparatus clamped to his head like an operator at central.
In my experience, the meek inherit the dearth. Let us not be meek!" There was a shout of applause, and Quimbleton's salient of horse-hair beard waved triumphantly as he gathered strength. His burly figure in the lilac upholstering dominated the audience. He went on: "And what is our crime?
"Holy cat!" shouted the cartoonist "Poison gas!" "Nix!" said Bleak, revealing Quimbleton's secret in his excitement. "Gooseberry bombs. Every chuff that inhales it will be properly soused. Oh, boy, some story! Look at the Bish! He's got a snootful already his face has turned black!"
I could enumerate thousands of such instances. For several years we worked in this unassuming way, trying to add to the sum of human happiness." Quimbleton's white beard shone with a pinkish brightness as he inhaled heavily on his cigar. "Now, Mr. Bleak," he went on, "I come to you because we need your help.
"I am Miss Chuff," she said calmly. The editor's brain staggered. "Miss Theodolinda Chuff?" he said, in amazement. He recalled some satirical editorials the Balloon had printed concerning the activities of the Chuffs, and wondered if he were being kidnaped for court-martial by the Pan-Antis. Evidently the use of Quimbleton's name had been a ruse.
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