g 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,