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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.
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.
"With the compliments of the Corporation," he repeated. Bleak and the city editor looked again at the card, and at each other. They scanned the face of their mysterious benefactor. Bleak's hand went out to the nearest glass. He raised it to his lips. An almost-forgotten formula recurred to him. "Down the rat-hole!" he cried, and tilted his arm.
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.
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.
The progress of the parade, however, was halted by the behavior of the Bishop's horse, for which no mask had been provided. The noble animal, under this sudden and extraordinary stimulus, was almost human in its actions. At first it stood, whinneying sharply, and pawing the air with one forefoot as though feeling for the brass rail, as one of Bleak's companions said.
Fortunately Miss Chuff's presence at the wheel, and Bleak's credentials as war correspondent, enabled them to pass several scouting parties of chuff uhlans without suspicion.
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.
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.
The three gray planes, which had been circling far above, swooped down almost to a level with the tops of the buildings. One of these, a huge two-seated bomber, passed directly over Bleak's head. He craned upward, and caught a glimpse of what he thought at first was a white pennant trailing over the bulwark of the cockpit.
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