now, as the sex
given to things of the spirit while the men warred against base things
material, they took command and cried, "Oh, let's!" In the dimness
the men were rather solemn and foolish, but the goodwives quivered and
adored as they sat about the table. They laughed, "Now, you be good or
I'll tell!" when the men took their hands in the circle.

Babbitt tingled with a slight return of interest in life as Louetta
Swanson's hand closed on his with quiet firmness.

All of them hunched over, intent. They startled as some one drew a
strained breath. In the dusty light from the hall they looked unreal,
they felt disembodied. Mrs. Gunch squeaked, and they jumped with
unnatural jocularity, but at Frink's hiss they sank into subdued awe.
Suddenly, incredibly, they heard a knocking. They stared at Frink's
half-revealed hands and found them lying still. They wriggled, and
pretended not to be impressed.

Frink spoke with gravity: "Is some one there?" A thud. "Is one knock to
be the sign for 'yes'?" A thud. "And two for 'no'?" A thud.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, shall we ask the guide to put us into
communication with the spirit of some great one passed over?" Frink
mumbled.

Mrs Orville Jones begged, "Oh, let's talk to Dante! We studied him at
the Reading Circle. You know who he was, Orvy."

"Certainly I know who he was! The Wop poet. Where do you think I was
raised?" from her insulted husband.

"Sure--the fellow that took the Cook's Tour to Hell. I've never waded
through his po'try, but we learned about him in the U.," said Babbitt.

"Page Mr. Dannnnnty!" intoned Eddie Swanson.

"You ought to get him easy, Mr. Frink, you and he being fellow-poets,"
said Louetta Swanson.

"Fellow-poets, rats! Where d' you get that stuff?" protested Vergil
Gunch. "I suppose Dante showed a lot of speed for an old-timer--not that
I've actually read him, of course--but to come right down to hard facts,
he wouldn't stand one-two-three if he had to buckle down to practical
literature and turn out a poem for the newspaper-syndicate every day,
like Chum does!"

"That's so," from Eddie Swanson. "Those old birds could take their time.
Judas Priest, I could write poetry myself if I had a whole year for it,
and just wrote about that old-fashioned junk like Dante wrote about."

Frink demanded, "Hush, now! I'll call him. . . O, Laughing Eyes, emerge
forth into the, uh, the ultimates and bring hither the spirit of Dante,
that we mortals may