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I do it principally to annoy Bishop Chuff. You see, he lives next door." "Bishop Chuff of the Pan-Antis?" "Yes," said Quimbleton "but don't shout! His garden adjoins this. He has a periscope that overlooks my quarters. That's why I have to wear this disguise in the garden. I think he's getting a bit suspicious. I manage to cause him a good deal of suffering with the fizz fumes from my garden.
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.
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.
Miss Chuff sat down at this table, and gazed intently at the glass. Quimbleton produced a white apron from somewhere, and tied it round his burly form. With Bleak playing the role of customer he then went through a pantomime of serving imaginary drinks.
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.
And here was this daring Quimbleton, living at the very sill of the lion's den. "By means of my disguise," whispered Quimbleton, "I was able to make a pleasant impression on the Bishop. One evening I went to call on him. I took the precaution to eat a green persimmon beforehand, which distorted my features into such a malignant contraction of pessimism and misanthropy that I quite won his heart.
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.
And Chuff threatens to abolish all vegetables of every kind if necessary." Bleak sat in horrified silence. "There is another aspect of the matter," said Quimbleton, "that touches your profession very closely. Bishop Chuff is greatly annoyed at the persistent use of the printing press to issue clandestine vinous recipes. He solemnly threatens, if this continues, to abolish the printing press.
Owing to the intoxication of Bishop Chuff, the projected parade of the Pan-Antis broke up in confusion. Federal Home for Inebriates at Cana, N.J., reopened after two years' vacation. "Is this straight stuff?" asked Bleak tremulously. "My right hand upon it," cried Quimbleton, tearing off his beard in his earnestness. "Then good-night!" said Bleak. "I must get back to the office."
"Maybe you can have one too," said Bleak, and turned to where Quimbleton had been standing. But the mysterious visitor had leff the room. "You're too late, Bill," said the city editor genially. "There was a kind of Messiah here, but he's gone. Tough luck." "Say, boss," suggested one of the reporters. "There's a story in this. May I interview that guy?"
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