CHAPTER VI
DEPARTED SPIRITS
If Bishop Chuff desired to make people stop thinking about alcohol, hisplan of seizing them and shutting them up in the grounds of the FederalHome at Cana was a quaint way of attaining this purpose. For all thevictims, who had been suddenly arrested in the course of their dailyconcerns, accused (before a rum-head court martial) of harboringillicit alcoholic desires, and driven over to Cana in crowdedmotor-trucks, now had very little else to brood about. In the goldenlight and fragrance of a summer afternoon, here they were surrounded byall the apparatus to restrain alcoholic excess, and not even theslightest exhilaration of spirit to justify the depressing scene. Itwas annoying to see frequent notices such as: This Entrance forBrandy-Topers; or Vodka Patients in This Ward; or Inmates Must Not BiteOff the Door-Knobs. It seemed carrying a jest too far when thesecitizens, most of whom had not even smelt a drink in two years, foundthemselves billeted into padded cells and confronted by rows ofstrait-jackets. Moreover, the Home had lain unused for many months: itwas dusty, dilapidated, and of a moldy savor. Some of the unwillingvisitors, finding that the grounds included a strip of sandy beach,took their ordeal with reasonable philosophy. "Since we are to beslaves," they said, "at least let's have some serf bathing." Anddonning (with a shudder) the rather gruesome padded bathing suits theyfound in the lockers, they went off for a swim. Others, of a humorousturn, derived a certain rudimentary amusement in studying the gardenmarked Reserved for Patients with Insane Delusions, where they found avery excellent relief-model of the battleground of the Marne, laid outby a former inmate who had imagined himself to be General Joffre. Butmost of them stood about in groups, talking bitterly.
Quimbleton, therefore, found a receptive audience for his Spartacusscheme of organizing this band of downtrodden victims into a fightingforce. He gathered them into the dining-hall of the Home and addressedthem in spirited language.
"My friends" (he said), "unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, Ifeel it my duty to administer a few remarks on the subject of ourpresent situation.
"And the first thought that comes to my mind, candidly, is this, thatwe must give Bishop Chuff credit for a quality we never imagined him topossess. That quality, gentlemen, is a sense of humor. I hear somedissent; and yet it seems to me to be somewhat humorous that thisgathering, composed of men who were accustomed, in the good old days,to carry their liquor like gentlemen, should now, when they have beencold sober for two years, be incarcerated in this humiliating place,surrounded by the morbid relics of those weaker souls who found theirgrog too strong for them.
"I say therefore that we must give Bishop Chuff credit for a sense ofhumor. It makes him all the more deadly enemy. Yet I think we will havethe laugh on him yet, in a manner I shall presently describe. For theBishop has what may be denominated a single-tract mind. He undoubtedlyimagines that we will submit tamely to this outrage. He has surroundedus with guards. He expects us to be meek. In my experience, the meekinherit the dearth. Let us not be meek!"
There was a shout of applause, and Quimbleton's salient of horse-hairbeard waved triumphantly as he gathered strength. His burly figure inthe lilac upholstering dominated the audience. He went on:
"And what is our crime? That we have nourished, in the privacy of ourown intellects, treasonable thoughts or desires concerning alcohol!Gentlemen, it is the first principle of common law that a man cannot beindicted for thinking a crime. There must be some overt act, someevidence of illegal intention. Can a man be deprived of freedom forcarrying concealed thoughts? If so, we might as well abolish the humanmind itself. Which Bishop Chuff and his flunkeys would gladly do, Idoubt not, for they themselves would lose nothing thereby."
Vigorous clapping greeted this sally.
"Now, gentlemen," cried Quimbleton, "though we follow a lost cause, andeven though the gooseberry and the raisin and the apple be doomed, letus see it through with gallantry! The enemy has mobilized dreadfulengines of war against us. Let us retort in kind. He has tanks in thefield--let us retort with tankards. They tell me there is a warship inthe offing, to shell us into submission. Very well: if he has gobs, letus retort with goblets. If he has deacons, let us parry him withdecanters. Chuff has put us here under the pretext of being drunk. Verywell: then let us BE drunk. Let us go down in our cups, not in oursaucers. Where there's a swill, there's a way! Let us be sot in ourways," he added, sotto voce.
Terrific uproar followed this fine outburst. Quimbleton had to calm thefrenzy by gesturing for silence.
"I hear some natural queries," he said. "Some one asks 'How?' To this Ishall presently explain 'Here's how.' Bear with me a moment.
"My friends, it would be idle for us to attempt the great task beforeus relying merely on ourselves. In such great crises it is necessary tocall upon a Higher Power for strength and succor. This is no merebrawl, no haphazard scuffle: it is the battle-ground--if I werejocosely minded I might say it is the bottle-ground--of a greatprinciple. If, gentlemen, I wished to harrow your souls, I would askyou to hark back in memory to the fine old days when brave men andlovely women sat down at the same table with a glass of wine, or a mugof ale, and no one thought any the worse. I would ask you to rememberthe color of the wine in the goblet, how it caught the light, howmerrily it twinkled with beaded bubbles winking at the brim, as somepoet has observed. If I wanted to harrow you, gentlemen, I would recallto you little tables, little round tables, set out under the trees onthe lawn of some country inn, where the enchanting music of harp andfiddle twangled on the summer air, where great bowls of punch chimedgently as the lumps of ice knocked on the thin crystal. The littletables were spread tinder the trees, and then, later on, perhaps, thecustomers were spread under the tables.--I would ask you to recall themanly seidel of dark beer as you knew it, the bitter chill of it as itwent down, the simple felicity it induced in the care-burdened mind. Icould quote to you poet after poet who has nourished his song uponhonest malt liquor. I need only think of Mr. Masefield, who has putthese manly words in the mouth of his pirate mate:
Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French, And some'll swallow tea and stuff fit only for a wench, But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench!
Oh some are fond of fiddles and a song well sung, And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue; But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung!"
This apparently artless oratory was beginning to have its effect. Loudhuzzas filled the hall. These touching words had evoked wistfulmemories hidden deep in every heart. Old wounds were reopened and bledafresh.
Again Quimbleton had to call for silence.
"I will recite to you," he said, "a ditty that I have composed myself.It is called A Chanty of Departed Spirits."
In a voice tremulous with emotion he began:
The earth is grown puny and pallid, The earth is grown gouty and gray, For whiskey no longer is valid And wine has been voted away-- As for beer, we no longer will swill it In riotous rollicking spree; The little hot dogs in the skillet Will have to be sluiced down with tea.
O ales that were creamy like lather! O beers that were foamy like suds! O fizz that I loved like a father! O fie on the drinks that are duds! I sat by the doors that were slatted And the stuff had a surf like the sea-- No vintage was anywhere vatted Too strong for ventripotent me!
I wallowed in waves that were tidal, But yet I was never unmoored; And after the twentieth seidel My syllables still were assured. I never was forced to cut cable And drift upon perilous shores, To get home I was perfectly able, Erect, or at least on all fours.
Although I was often some swiller, I never was fuddled or blowsed; My hand was still firm on the tiller, No matter how deep I caroused; But now they have put an embargo On jazz-juice that tingles the spine,
We can't even cozen a cargo Of harmless old gooseberry wine!
 
; But no legislation can daunt us: The drinks that we knew never die: Their spirits will come back to haunt us And whimper and hover near by. The spookists insist that communion Exists with the souls that we lose-- And so we may count on reunion With all that's immortal of Booze.
Those spirits we loved have departed To some psychical twentieth plane; But still we will not be downhearted, We'll soon greet our loved ones again-- To lighten our drouth and our tedium Whenever our moments would sag, We'll call in a spiritist medium And go on a psychical jag!
As the frenzy of cheering died away, Quimbleton's face took on the glowof simple benignance that Bleak had first observed at the time of thejulep incident in the Balloon office. The flush of a warm, impulsiveidealism over-spread his genial features. It was the face of one whodeeply loved his fellow-men.
"My friends," he said, "now I am able to say, in all sincerity, Here'sHow. I have great honor in presenting to you my betrothed fiancee, MissTheodolinda Chuff. Do not be startled by the name, gentlemen. MissChuff, the daughter of our arch-enemy, is wholly in sympathy with us.She is the possessor (happily for us) of extraordinary psychic powers.I have persuaded her to demonstrate them for our benefit. If you willfollow my instructions implicitly, you will have the good fortune ofwitnessing an alcoholic seance."
Miss Chuff, very pale, but obviously glad to put her spiritual gift atthe disposal of her lover, was escorted to the platform by Bleak. Theeditor had been coached beforehand by Quimbleton as to the routine ofthe seance.
"The first requirement," said Quimbleton to the awe-struck gathering,"is to put yourselves in the proper frame of mind. For that purpose Iwill ask you all to stand up, placing one foot on the rung of a chair.Kindly imagine yourselves standing with one foot on a brass rail. Youwill then summon to mind, with all possible accuracy and vividness, thescenes of some bar-room which was once dear to you. I will also ask youto concentrate your mental faculties upon some beverage which was onceyour favorite. Please rehearse in imagination the entire ritual whichwas once so familiar, from the inquiring look of the bartender down tothe final clang of the cash-register. A visualization of the old freelunch counter is also advisable. All these details will assist themedium to trance herself."
Bleak in the meantime had carried a small table on the platform, andplaced an empty glass upon it. Miss Chuff sat down at this table, andgazed intently at the glass. Quimbleton produced a white apron fromsomewhere, and tied it round his burly form. With Bleak playing therole of customer he then went through a pantomime of serving imaginarydrinks. His representation of the now vanished type of the bartenderwas so admirably realistic that it brought tears to the eyes of morethan one in the gathering. The editor, with appropriate countenance andgesture, dramatized the motions of ordering, drinking, and paying forhis invisible refreshment. His pantomime was also accurate andsatisfying, evidently based upon seasoned experience. The argument asto who should pay, the gesture conveying the generous sentiment "Thisone's on me," the spinning of a coin on the bar, the raising of theelbow, the final toss that dispatched the fluid--all these were done tothe life. The audience followed suit with a will. A whispering rustleran through the dingy hall as each man murmured his favoritecatchwords. "Give it a name," "Set 'em up again," "Here's luck," andsuch archaic phrases were faintly audible. Miss Chuff kept her gazefastened on the empty tumbler.
Suddenly her rigid pose relaxed. She drooped forward in her chair, withher head sunk and hands limp. Tenderly and reverently Quimbleton bentover her. Then, his face shining with triumph, he spoke to the hushedwatchers.
"She is in the trance," he said. "Gentlemen, her happy soul is in touchwith the departed spirits. What'll you have? Don't all speak at once."
Fifty-nine, in hushed voices, petitioned for a Bronx. Quimbleton turnedto the unconscious girl.
"Fifty-nine devotees," he said, "ask that the spirit of the Bronxcocktail vouchsafe his presence among us."
Miss Chuff's slender figure stiffened again. Her hand went out to theglass beside her, and raised it to her lips. Some of the more eagerlycredulous afterwards asserted that they had seen a cloudy yellow liquidappear in the vessel, but it is not improbable that the wish was fatherto the vision. At any rate, the fifty-nine suppliants experienced atthat instant a gush of sweet coolness down their throats, and theunmistakable subsequent tingle. They gazed at each other with a wildsurmise.
"How about another?" said one in a thrilling whisper.
"Take your turn," said Quimbleton. "Who's next?"
One hundred and fifty-three nominated Scotch whiskey. The order wasfilled without a slip. Quimbleton's face beamed above his beard like afull-blown rose. "Magnificent!" he whispered to Bleak, both of themhaving partaken in the second round. "If this keeps on we'll have acharge of the tight brigade."
The next round was ninety-five Jack Rose cocktails, but the audiencewas beginning to get out of hand. Those who had not yet been servedgrew restive. They saw their companions with brightened eyes andbeaming faces, comparing notes as to this delicious revival of oldsensations. In the impatience of some and the jubilation of others, thepsychic concentration flagged a little. Then, just as Quimbleton wasabout to ask for the fourth round, the unforgiveable happened. Some oneat the back shouted, "A glass of buttermilk!"
Miss Chuff shuddered, quivered, and opened her eyes with a tragic gasp.She slipped from the chair, and fell exhausted to the floor. Bleak ranto pick her up. Quimbleton screamed out an oath.
"The spell is broken!" he roared. "There's a spy in the room!"
At that instant a battalion of armed chuffs burst into the hall. Theycarried a huge hose, and in ten seconds a six-inch stream of cold waterwas being poured upon the bewildered psychic tipplers. Quimbleton andBleak, seizing the girl's helpless form, escaped by a door at the backof the platform.
"Heaven help us," cried Bleak, distraught. "What shall we do? Thismeans the firing squad unless we can escape."
Theodolinda feebly opened her eyes.
"O horrible," she murmured. "The spirit of buttermilk--I saw him--hethreatened me--"
"The horse!" cried Quimbleton, with fierce energy. "The Bishop'shorse--in the stable!"
They ran wildly to the rear quarters of the Home, where they found theBishop's famous charger whinneying in his stall. All three leaped uponhis back. In the confusion, amid the screams of the tortured inmatesand the cruel cries of the invading chuffs, they made good their escape.
Every one of the wretched inmates captured at the psychic carouse wasimmediately sentenced to six months' hard listening on the Chautauquacircuit. But even during this brutal punishment their memories returnedwith tenderest reminiscence to the experience of that afternoon. As oneof them said, "it was a real treat." And although Quimbleton hadplainly stated the relation in which he stood to Theodolinda Chuff, shehad no less than two hundred and ten proposals of marriage, by mail,from those who had attended the seance.