DEPARTED SPIRITS
If Bishop Chuff desired to make people stop thinking about alcohol, his
plan of seizing them and shutting them up in the grounds of the Federal
Home at Cana was a quaint way of attaining this purpose. For all the
victims, who had been suddenly arrested in the course of their daily
concerns, accused (before a rum-head court martial) of harboring
illicit alcoholic desires, and driven over to Cana in crowded
motor-trucks, now had very little else to brood about. In the golden
light and fragrance of a summer afternoon, here they were surrounded by
all the apparatus to restrain alcoholic excess, and not even the
slightest exhilaration of spirit to justify the depressing scene. It
was annoying to see frequent notices such as: This Entrance for
Brandy-Topers; or Vodka Patients in This Ward; or Inmates Must Not Bite
Off the Door-Knobs. It seemed carrying a jest too far when these
citizens, most of whom had not even smelt a drink in two years, found
themselves billeted into padded cells and confronted by rows of
strait-jackets. Moreover, the Home had lain unused for many months: it
was dusty, dilapidated, and of a moldy savor. Some of the unwilling
visitors, finding that the grounds included a strip of sandy beach,
took their ordeal with reasonable philosophy. "Since we are to be
slaves," they said, "at least let's have some serf bathing." And
donning (with a shudder) the rather gruesome padded bathing suits they
found in the lockers, they went off for a swim. Others, of a humorous
turn, derived a certain rudimentary amusement in studying the garden
marked Reserved for Patients with Insane Delusions, where they found a
very excellent relief-model of the battleground of the Marne, laid out
by a former inmate who had imagined himself to be General Joffre. But
most of them stood about in groups, talking bitterly.
Quimbleton, therefore, found a receptive audience for his Spartacus
scheme of organizing this band of downtrodden victims into a fighting
force. He gathered them into the dining-hall of the Home and addressed
them in spirited language.
"My friends" (he said), "unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I
feel it my duty to administer a few remarks on the subject of our
present situation.
"And the first thought that comes to my mind, candidly, is this, that
we must give Bishop Chuff credit for a quality we never imagined him to
possess. That quality, gentlemen, is a sense of humor. I hear some
dissent; and yet it seems to me to be somewhat humorous that this
gathering, composed of men who were accustomed, in the good old days,
to carry their liquor like gentlemen, should now, when they have been
cold sober for two years, be incarcerated in this humiliating place,
surrounded by the morbid relics of those weaker souls who found their
grog too strong for them.
"I say therefore that we must give Bishop Chuff credit for a sense of
humor. It makes him all the more deadly enemy. Yet I think we will have
the laugh on him yet, in a manner I shall presently describe. For the
Bishop has what may be denominated a single-tract mind. He undoubtedly
imagines that we will submit tamely to this outrage. He has surrounded
us with guards. He expects us to be meek. In my experience, the meek
inherit the dearth. Let us not be meek!"
There was a shout of applause, and Quimbleton's salient of horse-hair
beard waved triumphantly as he gathered strength. His burly figure in
the lilac upholstering dominated the audience. He went on:
"And what is our crime? That we have nourished, in the privacy of our
own intellects, treasonable thoughts or desires concerning alcohol!
Gentlemen, it is the first principle of common law that a man cannot be
indicted for thinking a crime. There must be some overt act, some
evidence of illegal intention. Can a man be deprived of freedom for
carrying concealed thoughts? If so, we might as well abolish the human
mind itself. Which Bishop Chuff and his flunkeys would gladly do, I
doubt not, for they themselves would lose nothing thereby."
Vigorous clapping greeted this sally.
"Now, gentlemen," cried Quimbleton, "though we follow a lost cause, and
even though the gooseberry and the raisin and the apple be doomed, let
us see it through with gallantry! The enemy has mobilized dreadful
engines of war against us. Let us retort in kind. He has tanks in the
field--let us retort with tankards. They tell me there is a warship in
the offing, to shell us into submission. Very well: if he has gobs, let
us retort with goblets. If he has deacons, let us parry him with
decanters. Chuff has put us here under the pretext of being drunk. Very
well: then let us BE drunk. Let us go down in our cups, not in our
saucers. Where there's a swill, there's a way! Let us be sot in our
ways," he added, sotto voce.
Terrific uproar followed this fine outburst. Quimbleton had to calm the
frenzy by gesturing for silence.
"I hear some natural queries," he said. "Some one asks 'How?' To this I
shall presently explain 'Here's how.' Bear with me a moment.
"My friends, it would be idle for us to attempt the great task before
us relying merely on ourselves. In such great crises it is necessary to
call upon a Higher Power for strength and succor. This is no mere
brawl, no haphazard scuffle: it is the battle-ground--if I were
jocosely minded I might say it is the bottle-ground--of a great
principle. If, gentlemen, I wished to harrow your souls, I would ask
you to hark back in memory to the fine old days when brave men and
lovely women sat down at the same table with a glass of wine, or a mug
of ale, and no one thought any the worse. I would ask you to remember
the color of the wine in the goblet, how it caught the light, how
merrily it twinkled with beaded bubbles winking at the brim, as some
poet has observed. If I wanted to harrow you, gentlemen, I would recall
to you little tables, little round tables, set out under the trees on
the lawn of some country inn, where the enchanting music of harp and
fiddle twangled on the summer air, where great bowls of punch chimed
gently as the lumps of ice knocked on the thin crystal. The little
tables were spread tinder the trees, and then, later on, perhaps, the
customers were spread under the tables.--I would ask you to recall the
manly seidel of dark beer as you knew it, the bitter chill of it as it
went down, the simple felicity it induced in the care-burdened mind. I
could quote to you poet after poet who has nourished his song upon
honest malt liquor. I need only think of Mr. Masefield, who has put
these 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. Loud
huzzas filled the hall. These touching words had evoked wistful
memories hidden deep in every heart. Old wounds were reopened and bled
afresh.
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 glow
of simple benignance that Bleak had first observed at the time of the
julep incident in the Balloon office. The flush of a warm, impulsive
idealism over-spread his genial features. It was the face of one who
deeply loved his fellow-men.
"My friends," he said, "now I am able to say, in all sincerity, Here's
How. I have great honor in presenting to you my betrothed fiancee, Miss
Theodolinda Chuff. Do not be startled by the name, gentlemen. Miss
Chuff, 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 will
follow my instructions implicitly, you will have the good fortune of
witnessing an alcoholic seance."
Miss Chuff, very pale, but obviously glad to put her spiritual gift at
the disposal of her lover, was escorted to the platform by Bleak. The
editor had been coached beforehand by Quimbleton as to the routine of
the seance.
"The first requirement," said Quimbleton to the awe-struck gathering,
"is to put yourselves in the proper frame of mind. For that purpose I
will 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. You
will then summon to mind, with all possible accuracy and vividness, the
scenes of some bar-room which was once dear to you. I will also ask you
to concentrate your mental faculties upon some beverage which was once
your favorite. Please rehearse in imagination the entire ritual which
was once so familiar, from the inquiring look of the bartender down to
the final clang of the cash-register. A visualization of the old free
lunch counter is also advisable. All these details will assist the
medium to trance herself."
Bleak in the meantime had carried a small table on the platform, and
placed an empty glass upon it. 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. His representation of the now vanished type of the bartender
was so admirably realistic that it brought tears to the eyes of more
than one in the gathering. The editor, with appropriate countenance and
gesture, dramatized the motions of ordering, drinking, and paying for
his invisible refreshment. His pantomime was also accurate and
satisfying, evidently based upon seasoned experience. The argument as
to who should pay, the gesture conveying the generous sentiment "This
one's on me," the spinning of a coin on the bar, the raising of the
elbow, the final toss that dispatched the fluid--all these were done to
the life. The audience followed suit with a will. A whispering rustle
ran through the dingy hall as each man murmured his favorite
catchwords. "Give it a name," "Set 'em up again," "Here's luck," and
such archaic phrases were faintly audible. Miss Chuff kept her gaze
fastened on the empty tumbler.
Suddenly her rigid pose relaxed. She drooped forward in her chair, with
her head sunk and hands limp. Tenderly and reverently Quimbleton bent
over her. Then, his face shining with triumph, he spoke to the hushed
watchers.
"She is in the trance," he said. "Gentlemen, her happy soul is in touch
with the departed spirits. What'll you have? Don't all speak at once."
Fifty-nine, in hushed voices, petitioned for a Bronx. Quimbleton turned
to the unconscious girl.
"Fifty-nine devotees," he said, "ask that the spirit of the Bronx
cocktail vouchsafe his presence among us."
Miss Chuff's slender figure stiffened again. Her hand went out to the
glass beside her, and raised it to her lips. Some of the more eagerly
credulous afterwards asserted that they had seen a cloudy yellow liquid
appear in the vessel, but it is not improbable that the wish was father
to the vision. At any rate, the fifty-nine suppliants experienced at
that instant a gush of sweet coolness down their throats, and the
unmistakable subsequent tingle. They gazed at each other with a wild
surmise.
"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 was
filled without a slip. Quimbleton's face beamed above his beard like a
full-blown rose. "Magnificent!" he whispered to Bleak, both of them
having partaken in the second round. "If this keeps on we'll have a
charge of the tight brigade."
The next round was ninety-five Jack Rose cocktails, but the audience
was beginning to get out of hand. Those who had not yet been served
grew restive. They saw their companions with brightened eyes and
beaming faces, comparing notes as to this delicious revival of old
sensations. In the impatience of some and the jubilation of others, the
psychic concentration flagged a little. Then, just as Quimbleton was
about to ask for the fourth round, the unforgiveable happened. Some one
at 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 ran
to 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. They
carried a huge hose, and in ten seconds a six-inch stream of cold water
was being poured upon the bewildered psychic tipplers. Quimbleton and
Bleak, seizing the girl's helpless form, escaped by a door at the back
of the platform.
"Heaven help us," cried Bleak, distraught. "What shall we do? This
means the firing squad unless we can escape."
Theodolinda feebly opened her eyes.
"O horrible," she murmured. "The spirit of buttermilk--I saw him--he
threatened me--"
"The horse!" cried Quimbleton, with fierce energy. "The Bishop's
horse--in the stable!"
They ran wildly to the rear quarters of the Home, where they found the
Bishop's famous charger whinneying in his stall. All three leaped upon
his back. In the confusion, amid the screams of the tortured inmates
and the cruel cries of the invading chuffs, they made good their escape.
Every one of the wretched inmates captured at the psychic carouse was
immediately sentenced to six months' hard listening on the Chautauqua
circuit. But even during this brutal punishment their memories returned
with tenderest reminiscence to the experience of that afternoon. As one
of them said, "it was a real treat." And although Quimbleton had
plainly stated the relation in which he stood to Theodolinda Chuff, she
had no less than two hundred and ten proposals of marriage, by mail,
from those who had attended the seance.