CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE ON CARAWAY STREET
After telephoning to his wife that he would not be home for supper,Bleak set out for Caraway Street. He was in that exuberant mooddiscernible in commuters unexpectedly spending an evening in town.Instead of hurrying out to the suburbs on the 6:17 train, to mow thelawn and admire the fireflies, here he was watching the more dazzlingfireflies of the city--the electric signs which were already bulbedwanly against the rich orange of the falling sun. He puffed his pipelustily and with a jaunty condescension watched the crowds throngingthe drugstores for their dram of ice-cream soda. In his bosom thesecret julep tingled radiantly. At that hour of the evening the shiningbustle of the central streets was drawing the life of the city toitself. In the residential by-ways through which his route took him thepavements were nearly deserted. A delicious sense of extravagantadventure possessed him. As a newspaper man, he did not feel at allsure that he was on the threshold of a printable "story"; but as aconnoisseur of juleps he felt that very possibly he was on thethreshold of another drink. Passing a line of billboards, he noticed abrightly colored poster advertising a brand of collars. In sheerlight-heartedness he drew a soft pencil from his waistcoat and adornedthe comely young man on the collar poster with a heavy mustache.
Caraway Street, with which he had not previously been familiar, provedto be a quaint little channel of old brick houses, leading into thebonfire of the summer sunset. There was nothing to distinguish number1316 from its neighbors. He rang the bell, and there ensued a rapidclicking in the lock, indicating that the latch had been released bysome one within. He pushed the door open, and entered.
He had a curious sensation of having stepped into an old Flemishpainting. The hall in which he stood was cool and rather dark, though abright refraction of light tossed from some upper window upon a tallmirror filled the shadow with broken spangles. Through an open doorwayat the rear was the green glimmer of a garden. In front of him was amahogany sideboard. On its polished top lay two books, a box of cigars,and a cut glass decanter surrounded by several glasses. In the decanterwas a pale yellow fluid which held a beam of light. The house wascompletely silent.
Somewhat abashed, he removed his hat and stood irresolute, expectingsome greeting. But nothing happened. On a rack against the wall he sawa gray uniform coat like that which Mr. Quimbleton had worn in theBalloon office, and a similar gray cap with the silver monogram. Heglanced at the books. One was The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the otherwas a Bible, open at the second chapter of John. He was lookingcuriously at the decanter when a voice startled him.
"Dandelion wine!" it said. "Will you have a glass?"
He turned and saw an old gentleman with profuse white hair and beardtottering into the hall.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Bleak," said the latter. "I was expecting you."
"You are very kind," said the editor. "I fear you have the advantage ofme--I was told that Walt Whitman died in 1892--"
"Nonsense!" wheezed the other with a senile chuckle. He straightened,ripped off his silver fringes, and appeared as the stalwart Quimbletonhimself.
"Forgive my precautions," he said. "I am surrounded by spies. I have tobe careful. Should some of my enemies learn that old Mr. Monkbones ofCaraway Street is the same as Virgil Quimbleton of the HappinessCorporation, my life wouldn't be worth--well, a glass of gooseberrybrandy. Speaking of that, have a little of the dandelion wine." Hepointed to the decanter.
Bleak poured himself a glass, and watched his host carefully resume thehoary wig and whiskers. They passed into the garden, a quiet greenenclosure surrounded by brick walls and bright with hollyhocks andother flowers. It was overlooked by a quaint jumble of rear gables,tall chimneys and white-shuttered dormer windows.
"Do you play croquet?" asked Quimbleton, showing a neat pattern ofwhite hoops fixed in the shaven turf. "If so, we must have a game aftersupper. It's very agreeable as a quiet relaxation."
Mr. Bleak was still trying to get his bearings. To see this robustcreature gravely counterfeiting the posture of extreme old age wasalmost too much for his gravity. There was a bizarre absurdity in thesolemn way Quimbleton beamed out from his frosty and fraudulentshrubbery. Something in the air of the garden, also, seemed to pushBleak toward laughter. He had that sensation which we have allexperienced--an unaccountable desire to roar with mirth, for no verydefinite cause. He bit his lip, and sought rigorously for decorum.
"Upon my soul," he said, "This is the most fragrant garden I eversmelt. What is that delicious odor in the air, that faint perfume--?"
"That subtle sweetness?" said Quimbleton, with unexpected drollery.
"Exactly," said Bleak. "That abounding and pervasive aroma--"
"That delicate bouquet--?"
"Quite so, that breath of myrrh--"
"That balmy exhalation--?"
Bleak wondered if this was a game. He tried valiantly to continue."Precisely," he said, "That quintessence of--"
He could coerce himself no longer, and burst into a yell of laughter.
"Hush!" said Quimbleton, nervously. "Some one may be watching us. Butthe fragrance of the garden is something I am rather proud of. You see,I water the flowers with champagne."
"With champagne!" echoed Bleak. "Good heavens, man, you'll get penalservitude."
"Nonsense!" said Quimbleton. "The Eighteenth Amendment says thatintoxicating liquors may not be manufactured, sold or transported FORBEVERAGE PURPOSES. Nothing is said about using them to irrigate thegarden. I have a friend who makes this champagne himself and gives mesome of it for my rose-beds. If you spray the flowers with it, and thenwalk round and inhale them, you get quite a genial reaction. I do itprincipally 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. Hehas a periscope that overlooks my quarters. That's why I have to wearthis disguise in the garden. I think he's getting a bit suspicious. Imanage to cause him a good deal of suffering with the fizz fumes frommy garden. Jolly idea, isn't it?"
Bleak was aghast at the temerity of the man. Bishop Chuff, thefanatical leader of the Anti-Everything League--jocosely known as thePan-Antis--was the most feared man in America. It was he whose untiringorganization had forced prohibition through the legislatures of fortyStates--had closed the golf links on Sundays--had made it a misdemeanorto be found laughing in public. 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 apleasant impression on the Bishop. One evening I went to call on him. Itook the precaution to eat a green persimmon beforehand, whichdistorted my features into such a malignant contraction of pessimismand misanthropy that I quite won his heart. He accepted an invitationto play croquet with me. That afternoon I prepared the garden with adeluge of champagne. The golden drops sparkled on every rose-petal: thelawn was drenched with it. After playing one round the Bishop wasgloriously inflamed. He had to be carried home, roaring the mostunseemly ditties. Since then, as I say, he has grown (I fear) a triflesuspicious. But let us have a bite of supper."
More than once, as they sat under a thickly leafy grape arbor in thequiet green enclosure, Bleak had to pinch himself to confirm thewitness of his senses. A table was delicately spread with an agreeablerepast of cold salmon, asparagus salad, fruits, jellies, and whippedcreams. The flagon of dandelion vintage played its due part in therepast, and Mr. Bleak began to entertain a new respect for this commonflower of which he had been unduly inappreciative. Although the trellisscreened them from observation, Quimbleton seemed ill at ease. He keptan alert gaze roving about him, and spoke only in whispers. Once, whena bird lighted in the foliage behind them, causing a sudden stir amongthe leaves, his shaggy beard whirled round with every symptom of panic.Little by little this apprehension began to infect the journalist also.At first he had hardly restrained his mirth at the sight of this burlyathlete framed in the bush of Santa Claus. Now
he began to wonderwhether his escapade had been consummated at too great a risk.
That old-fashioned quarter of the city was incredibly still. As thelight ebbed slowly, and broad blue shadows crept across the patch ofturf, they sat in a silence broken only by the wiry cheep of sparrowsand the distant moan of trolley cars. The arrows of the decumbent sungilded the ripening grapes above them. Suddenly there were two loudbangs and a vicious whistle sang through the arbor. Broken twigs eddieddown upon the table cloth.
"Spotted mackerel!" cried Bleak. "Is some one shooting at us?"
Quimbleton reappeared presently from under the table. "All serene," hesaid. "We're safe now. That was only Chuff. Every night about this timehe comes out on his back gallery and enjoys a little sharp-shooting.He's a very good shot, and picks off the grapes that have ripenedduring the day. There were only two that were really purple thisevening, so now we can go ahead. Unless he should send over a raidingparty, we're all right."
The editor solaced himself with another beaker of the dandelion wineand they finished their meal in thoughtful silence.
"Mr. Bleak," said the other at last, "it was something more than meredesire to give you a pleasant surprise that led me to your office thisafternoon. Have you leisure to listen? Good! Please try one of thesecigars. If, while I am talking, you should hear any one moving in thegarden, just tap quietly on the table. Tell me, have you, beforeto-day, ever heard of the Corporation for the Perpetuation ofHappiness?"
"Never," replied Bleak, kindling a magnifico of remarkably rich, mildflavor.
"That is as I expected," rejoined Quimbleton. "We have campaignedincognito, partly by choice and partly (let me be candid) by necessity.But the time is come when we shall have to appear in the open. The lastgreat struggle is on, and it can no longer be conducted in the dark. Inthe course of my remarks I may be tempted to forget our present perils.I beg of you, if you hear any sounds that seem suspicious, to notify meinstantly."
"Pardon me," said Bleak, a little uneasily; "it was my intention tocatch the 9.30 train for Mandrake Park."
The fantastic cascade of false white hair wagged gravely in the dusk.
"My dear sir," said Quimbleton solemnly, "I fancy you are to begratified by a far higher destiny than catching the 9.30. Do me thehonor of filling your glass. But be careful not to clink the decanteragainst the tumbler. There is every probability that vigilant ears areon the alert."
There was a brief silence, and Bleak wondered (a trifle wildly) if hewere dreaming. The cigar on the opposite side of the little tableglowed rosily several times, and then Quimbleton's voice resumed, in adeep undertone.
"It is necessary to tell you," he said, "that the Corporation wasfounded a number of years ago, long before the events of the fatal year1919 and the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution. The incident ofthis afternoon may have caused you to think that what is vulgarlycalled booze is the chief preoccupation of our society. That is not so.We were organized at first simply to bring merriment and good cheerinto the lives of those who have found the vexations of modern life tootrying. In our early days we carried on an excellent (thoughunsystematic) guerilla warfare against human suffering.
"In this (let me admit it frankly) we were to a great degree selfish.As you are aware, the essence of humor is surprise: we found adelicious humor in our campaign of surprising woebegone humanity inmoments of crisis. For instance, we used to picket the railwayterminals to console commuters who had just missed their trains. Wefound it uproariously funny to approach a perspiring suburbanite, whohad missed the train (let us say) to Mandrake Park, and to press uponhim, with the compliments of the Corporation, some consolatorysouvenir--a box of cigars, perhaps, or a basket of rare fruit.Housewives, groaning over their endless routine of bathing the baby,ordering the meals, sweeping the floors and so on, would be amazed bythe sudden appearance of one of our deputies, in the service uniform ofgray and silver, equipped with vacuum cleaner and electric baby-washingmachine, to take over the domestic chores for one day. The troubles oflovers were under our special care. We saw how much anguish is causedby the passion of jealousy. Many an engaged damsel, tempted to mildescapade in some perfumed conservatory, found her heart chilled by thestern eye of a uniformed C.P.H. agent lurking behind a pottedhydrangea. We hired bands of urchins to make faces at evil old men whoplate-glass themselves in the windows of clubs. Many a husband,wondering desperately which hat or which tie to select, has beensurprised by the appearance of one of our staff at his elbow, tactfullypointing out which article would best harmonize with his complexion andstation in life. Ladies who insisted on overpowdering their noses werequietly waylaid by one of our matrons, and the excess of rice-dustremoved. A whole shipload of people who persisted in eating onions weregathered (without any publicity) into a concentration camp, and incompany with several popular comedians, deported to a coral atoll. Icould enumerate thousands of such instances. For several years weworked in this unassuming way, trying to add to the sum of humanhappiness."
Quimbleton's white beard shone with a pinkish brightness as he inhaledheavily on his cigar.
"Now, Mr. Bleak," he went on, "I come to you because we need your help.We can no longer maintain a light-hearted sniping campaign on theenemies of human happiness. This is a death struggle. You are awarethat Chuff and his legions are planning a tremendous parade forto-morrow. You know that it will be the most startling demonstration ofits kind ever arranged. One hundred thousand pan-antis will parade onthe Boulevard, with a hundred brass bands, led by the Bishop himself onhis coal black horse. Do you know the purpose of the parade?"
"In a general way," said Bleak, "I suppose it is to give publicity tothe prohibition cause."
"They have kept their malign scheme entirely secret," said Quimbleton."You, as a newspaper man, should know it. Does the (so-called) cause ofprohibition require publicity? Nonsense! Prohibition is already ineffect. The purpose of the parade is to undermine the splendid work ourCorporation has been doing for the past two years. As soon as the fatalamendment was passed we set to work to teach people how to brewbeverages of their own, in their own homes. As you know, very deliciouswine may be made from almost every vegetable and fruit. Potatoes,tomatoes, rhubarb, currants, blackberries, gooseberries, raisins,apples--all these are susceptible of fermentation, transforming theirjuices into desirable vintages. We specialized on such beverages. Weprinted and distributed millions of recipes. Chuff countered by passinglaws that no printed recipes could circulate through the mails. We hadmotion pictures filmed, showing the eager public how to perform thesesimple and cheering processes. Chuff thereupon had motion picturesbanned. He would abolish the principle of fermentation itself if hecould.
"We composed a little song-recipe for dandelion wine, sending thousandsof minstrels to sing it about the country until the people shouldmemorize it. Now Chuff threatens to forbid singing and the memorizingof poetry. At this moment he has fifty thousand zealots working in thecountryside collecting and burning dandelion seeds so as to reduce thecrop next spring.
"The purpose of his parade to-morrow is devastating in its simplicity.Having learned that wine may be made from gooseberries, he proposes (asa first step) to abolish them altogether. This is to be the NineteenthAmendment to the Constitution. No gooseberries shall be grown upon thesoil of the United States, or imported from abroad. Raisins too, sinceit is said that one raisin in a bottle of grape juice can cause it tobubble in illicit fashion, are to be put in the category of deadlyweapons. Any one found carrying a concealed raisin will go before afiring squad. And Chuff threatens to abolish all vegetables of everykind if necessary."
Bleak sat in horrified silence.
"There is another aspect of the matter," said Quimbleton, "that touchesyour profession very closely. Bishop Chuff is greatly annoyed at thepersistent use of the printing press to issue clandestine vinousrecipes. He solemnly threatens, if this continues, to abolish theprinting press. This is to be the Twentieth Amendment. No printingpress shall be used in the territory of the Uni
ted States. Any manfound with a printing press concealed about his person shall besentenced to life imprisonment. Even the Congressional Record is to bewritten entirely by hand."
The editor was unable to speak. He reached for the decanter, but foundit empty.
"Very well then," said Quimbleton. "The facts are before you. I supposeThe Evening Balloon has made its customary enterprising preparations toreport the big parade?"
"Why, yes," said Bleak. "Three photographers and three of our mostbrilliant reporters have been assigned to cover the event. One of thestories, dealing with pathetic incidents of the procession, has alreadybeen written--cases of women swooning in the vast throng, and so on.The Balloon is always first," he added, by force of habit.
"I want you to discard all your plans for describing the parade," saidQuimbleton. "I am about to give you the greatest scoop in the historyof journalism. The procession will break up in confusion. All that willbe necessary to say can be said in half a dozen lines, which I willgive you now. I suggest that you print them on your front page in thelargest possible type."
From his pocket he took a sheet of paper, neatly folded, and handed itacross the table.
"What on earth do you mean?" asked Bleak. "How can you know what willhappen?"
"The Corporation has spoken," said his host. "Let us go indoors, whereyou can read what I have written."
In a small handsomely appointed library Bleak opened the paper. It wasa sheet of official stationery and read as follows:--
THE CORPORATION FOR THE PERPETUATION OF HAPPINESS
Cable Address: Hapcorp
Virgil Quimbleton, Associate Director
1316 Caraway Street
Owing to the intoxication of Bishop Chuff, the projected parade of thePan-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 hisearnestness.
"Then good-night!" said Bleak. "I must get back to the office."