In the Sweet Dry and Dry

by Christopher Morley

  CHAPTER V

  THE TREACHERY OF MISS CHUFF

  "My story," said Miss Chuff, as the car slid along the road, "is richin pathos. My father, as you can imagine, is an impossible man to livewith. My poor mother was taken to an asylum years ago. Her malady takesa curious form: she is never violent, but spends all her time in poringover books, magazines and papers. Every time she finds the word HUSBANDin print she crosses it out with blue pencil.

  "From my earliest days I was accustomed to hear very little else buttalk about liquor. The fairy tales that most children are allowed toenjoy merely as stories were explained to me by my father as allegoriesbearing upon the sinister seductions of drink. Little Red Riding Hoodand the Wolf, for instance, became a symbol of young womanhood pursuedby the devouring Bronx cocktail. The princess from whose mouth cametoads and snakes was (of course) a princess under the influence ofcreme de menthe. Cinderella was a young girl who had been brought lowby taking a dash of brandy in her soup. Every dragon, with which goodfairy tales are liberally provided, was the Demon Rum. It is reallyamazing what stirring prohibition propaganda fairy tales contain if youknow how to interpret them.

  "All this kind of palaver naturally roused my childish curiosity as tothe subject of intoxicants. But, like a docile daughter, I fell intothe career marked out for me by my father. I became a militant for thePan-Antis. I distributed tracts by the million; I wrote a little poemon the idea that the gates of hell are swinging doors with slats. I canhonestly say that I never felt any real hankering for liquor until itwas prohibited altogether. That is a curious feature of human nature,that as soon as you forbid a thing it becomes irresistibly alluring.You remember the story of Mrs. Bluebeard.

  "It occurred to me, after booze had gone, that it was a sad thing thatI, Bishop Chuff's daughter, who was devoting my life to the prohibitioncause, should have not the slightest knowledge of the nature of thishideous evil we had been pursuing. I brooded over this a great deal,and fell into a melancholy state. The thought came to me, there must besome virtue in drink, or why would so many people have stubbornlycontested its abolition? It would be too long a story to tell you allthe details, but it was at that time that I first became aware of mypsychic gift."

  "Your psychic gift?" queried Bleak, wondering.

  She turned her bright beer-brown eyes upon him gravely. "Yes," shesaid, "I am an alcoholic medium. It is the latest and most superiorform of spiritualism. By gazing upon crystal--particularly upon anempty tumbler--I am able to throw myself into a trance in which I cancommunicate with departed spirits. A good drink does not die, you know:its soul hovers radiantly on the twentieth plane, and through theoccult power of a medium those who loved it in life can get in touchwith it once more. Through these trances of mine I have been privilegedto put many bereaved ones in communication with their dear departedspirits. To hear the table-rappings and the shouts of ecstasy you wouldperceive that a great deal of the anguish of separation is assuaged."

  "Do you often have these trances?" said Bleak, with a certainwistfulness.

  "They are not hard to induce," she said. "All that is necessary for aseance is a round table, preferably of some highly polished brown wood,a brass rail for the worshipers to put their feet on, and an emptytumbler to concentrate the power of yearning. If those present all wishhard enough there is sure to be a successful reunion with the Beyond."

  "But surely," said the fascinated editor, "surely not any--well, actualMATERIALIZATION?"

  "Oh, no; but the communion of souls produces quite sufficient results.You see, so many fine spirits passed over at once, suddenly, on thatFirst of July, that the twentieth plane is quite thronged with them,and they are just as eager to come back as their friends could be towelcome them. One good yearn deserves another, as we say. The only timewhen these seances fail is when some inharmonious soul is present--somepersonality not completely EN RAPPORT with the spirit of the gathering.I remember, for instance, an occasion when a gentleman from Kentuckyhad most ardently desired to get into communication with the astrals ofsome mint juleps he had loved very deeply in life. Everything seemedpropitious, but though I struggled hard I simply could not get thejulep spirit to descend to our mortal plane. Finally I made inquiry andfound that one of the guests was a root-beer manufacturer. Of courseyou may say that was petty jealousy on the side of the departed, buteven these vanished spirits have their human phases."

  She was silent for a moment.

  "You can imagine," she said, "what a perplexity I was in when Idiscovered these hitherto unsuspected powers in myself. Was I justifiedin putting them to use, for the good of humanity? And wasn't there acertain pathetic significance in the fact that I, the daughter of theman who had done so much to put these poor lonely spirits into theBeyond, should be made their sole channel of reunion with theirbereaved and sorrowing adorers? In all his harangues, I had never heardmy Father attack anything but the actual DRINKING of liquor. This formof communication seemed to me to solve so many problems. And it was inthis way that I first met Virgil."

  "Virgil?" said Bleak, absent-mindedly, for he was wondering whether hemight be privileged to attend one of these seances.

  "Virgil Quimbleton," she said. "In the early days of my trances I wasmuch haunted by the spirit of a certain cocktail--blended, I believe,of champagne and angostura--which insisted that it would beinconsolable until it could get in contact with Quimbleton and reassurehim as to the certainty of its existence beyond mortal bars. The deepaffection and old comradeship evidently cherished between Quimbletonand this cocktail was very touching, and I was more than happy to beable to effect their reunion. It was for this reason that Quimbleton,under a careful disguise, came to live next door to us on CarawayStreet. I would go out into the garden and have a trance; Quimbleton,poor bereaved fellow, would sit by me in the dusk and revel with thespirit of his dear comrade. This common bond soon ripened into Jove,and we became betrothed."

  She stripped off one of her gloves and showed Bleak a beautifulamethyst ring.

  "This is my engagement ring," she said. "It's a very precious symbol,for Quimbleton explained to me that the amethyst is a talisman againstdrunkenness. I looked it up in the dictionary, and found that he wasright. As long as I wear this ring the departed spirits have no illeffect upon me. But I sometimes wonder," she added with a sigh,"whether Virgil really loves me for myself, or only as a kind ofswinging door into the spirit world."

  The car was now approaching an open belt of country. Behind them laythe dark line of pine woods; far off, across a wide shimmer of sun andsandy fields sweetened by purple clover; and flowering grasses, was ablue ribbon of sea. But even in this remote shelf of New Jersey theimplacable hand of Chuff was at work. From a meadow near by they saw anobservation balloon going up and the windlass unwinding its cable. Ahuge paraboloid breath-detector (or breathoscope) was stationed on alow ridge. This terribly ingenious machine, which had just beeninvented by the pan-antis, records the vibrations of any alcoholicbreath within five miles, and indicates on a sensitive dial the exactdirection and distance of the breath. It was only too evident that thesearch for Quimbleton was going forward with fierce system. In theshelter of an old barn they heard a cork-popping machine-gun going offrapidly. This was one of the most atrocious ruses employed by thechuffs in their search for conscientious drinkers. The gun fires noprojectile, but produces a pleasant detonation like the swift andrepeated drawing of corks. Set up in the neighborhood of anybottle-habited man, it will invariably lure him into an approach. Nearit was an ice-tinkling device, used for the same purposes of stratagem.

  "Poor Virgil!" said Miss Chuff with a sigh. "I'm afraid he has had agrievous ordeal. We must run carefully now, so as not to give him away."

  Fortunately Miss Chuff's presence at the wheel, and Bleak's credentialsas war correspondent, enabled them to pass several scouting parties ofchuff uhlans without suspicion. In this way they neared the extensivegrounds surrounding the Federal Home for Inebriates, Cana, N. J. Thismagnificent Gothic building, alrea
dy showing some signs of decay fromtwo years of vacancy, stands on a slight eminence among what the realestate agents call "old shade," with a fine and carefully calculatedview over one of the largest bodies of undrinkable fluid known to man,the Atlantic Ocean.

  The car turned into a narrow sandy road skirting one side of the walledpark. This byway was completely screened from outside observation bythe high bulwark of the Home and by thick masses of rhododendronshrubbery. At a bend in the road Miss Chuff halted the motor, andmotioned Bleak to descend.

  "Now we will look for the persecuted patriot," she said.

  Bleak took charge of the basket of food, and Miss Chuff drew a smallrope ladder from a locker under the driver's seat. This she threwdeftly up to the top of the wall, hooking it upon the iron spikes.Bleak politely ascended first, and they scaled the wall, dropping downinto a tangle of underbrush.

  "I left him in here somewhere," said the girl, as they set off along anarrow path. "This was obviously the best place to hide, as, except forFather's horse, the Home hasn't had an inmate for two years. There wassome talk of Father making this the headquarters of the Great GeneralStrafe in this campaign, but I don't believe they have done so yet."

  "Hush!" said Bleak. "What is that I hear?"

  A dull, regular, recurrent sound, a sort of rasping sigh, stole throughthe thickets. They both listened in some agitation.

  "Sounds a little like an airplane, with one engine missing," said Bleak.

  "Can it be the sea, the surf breaking on the sand?" asked Miss Chuff.

  This seemed probable, and they accepted it as such; but as they pushedon through the tangle of saplings and bushes the sound seemed tolocalize itself on their left. Bleak peeped cautiously through a leafyscreen, and then beckoned the girl to his side. They looked down into awarm sandy hollow, overgrown and sheltered by a large rhododendron withknotted branches and dry, shiny leaves. Curled up on the sand bank, inthe unconsciously pathetic posture of sheer exhaustion, lay Quimbleton,asleep. A droning snore buzzed heavily from where he lay.

  "Poor Virgil!" said Miss Chuff. "How tired he looks."

  He did, indeed. The gray and silver uniform was ragged andsoil-stained; his boots were white with dust; his face was unshaved,though a razor lay beside him, and it seemed that he had been trying tostrop it on his Sam Browne belt. His pipe, filled but unlit, had fallenfrom his weary fingers; beside him was an empty match-box and tragicevidence of a number of unsuccessful attempts to get fire from aSwedish tandsticker. Crumpled under the elbow of the indomitableidealist was a much-thumbed copy of The Bartender's Benefactor, or Howto Mix 1001 Drinks, in which he had been seeking imaginary solace whenhe fell asleep. Near his head ticked a pocket alarm clock, which theyfound set to gong at two o'clock.

  "It seems a shame to wake him," said Theodolinda. Her brown eyesliquefied and effervesced with tenderness, until (as Bleak thought tohimself) they were quite the color of brandy and soda, without too muchsoda.

  The sleeper stirred, and a radiant smile passed over his unconsciousfeatures--a smile of pure and heavenly beatitude.

  "Say when, Jerry," he murmured.

  "He's dreaming!" cried Theodolinda. "See, his soul is far away!"

  "Two years away," said Bleak enviously. "Let him go to it while wereconnoiter. I believe in the Prevention of Cruelty to Sleep. He didn'tintend to wake up just yet, you can see by the alarm clock."

  "That's a good idea," she agreed. "I'd like to find out whether we'rein any immediate danger of pursuit."

  They set the basket of food beside Quimbleton, and carefully moved onthrough the strip of young trees until they neared the broad lawns thatsurround the Home for Inebriates. Miss Chuff, spying delicately througha leafy chink, gave a cry of alarm.

  "Heavens!" she said. "The place is full of people!"

  To their amazement, they saw the white banner of the Pan-Antis floatingon one of the towers of the building, and the grounds about the Homeblackened with a moving throng. Though they were too far distant todiscern any details of the crowd, it was plain (from the curiousto-and-fro of the gathering, like the seething of an ant-hill) that itsunits were imbued with some strong emotion. At that distance it mighthave been anger, or fear, or (more appropriate to the surroundings)drink.

  They hurried back to Quimbleton's hiding place, and found him alreadysitting up and attacking the shrimp salad. Bleak courteously avertedhis eyes from the affectionate embrace of the lovers.

  "Bless your heart for this grub," said Quimbleton to Bleak. "As soon asI smelt that shrimp salad I woke up. Do you know, I haven't eaten fortwo days."

  "Oh Virgil!" cried Theodolinda, "what does this mean--all the crowdround the Home? Mr. Bleak and I looked up there, and the place issimply packed. You can't stay undiscovered long with all those peoplearound. Who are they, anyway?"

  Quimbleton had to delay his reply until deglutition had mastered abulky consignment of shrimp. His large, resolute face, while somewhatmarred by hardships, showed no trace of panic.

  "I know all about it," he said. "It is the latest step on the route ofall evil taken by that fanatical person whom I shall presently callfather-in-law. He is not content with arresting people found drinking.This morning they began to seize people who THINK about drinking. Anyone who is guilty of thinking, in an affirmative way, about liquor, isto be interned in the Federal Home for a course in mental healing."

  "But how can they tell?" asked Bleak, nervously.

  "I don't know," said Quimbleton. "Perhaps they have a kind of ThirdDegree, flash a seidel of beer on you suddenly, and if you make aninvoluntary gesture of pleasure, you're convicted. Perhaps they'veinvented an instrument that tells what you think about. Perhaps theyjust arrest you on suspicion. At any rate all the folks who have beenthinking about booze are being collected and sent over here. I knowbecause I've seen most of my friends arriving all morning. I supposethey'll get me next. I don't much care as long as I've had something toeat."

  "Virgil, dear," said Miss Chuff, "you MUSTN'T give up hope now, afterbeing so brave. You know I'll stand by you to the end--to the verydregs."

  "If only I had some disguise," said Quimbleton sadly, "it wouldn't beso bad. But I must confess that these breath detectors and otherunscrupulous instruments they use have rather unnerved me."

  Bleak suddenly remembered, and thrust his hand in his hip-pocket. Hepulled out the hank of white beard that had floated down from theairplane a few days before. It was much crumpled, but intact.

  "Good man!" cried Quimbleton. "My jolly old beard!" He clapped it ontohis face and beamed hopefully. "Now, if there were some way of gettingrid of this tell-tale uniform--"

  They discussed this problem at some length, sitting in the shelteredbowl of sand, while Quimbleton finished his lunch. Bleak's suggestionof stitching together a sort of Robinson Crusoe suit of rhododendronleaves did not meet Quimbleton's approval.

  "No Robinson trousseau for me," he said. "I thought of pasting togetherthe leaves of The Bartender's Benefactor, but I'm afraid that would berather damning. No, I don't see what to do."

  "I have it!" said Theodolinda, gleefully. "I've got a sewing kit in thecar--we'll unrip the upholstery and I can stitch you up a suit in notime. At least it will be better than the C. P. H. get-up, which wouldtake you in front of a firing squad if it were seen."

  This seemed a good idea. Bleak volunteered to escort Miss Chuff back tothe car and help her rip the covers off the cushions. This was done,and they carried back to Quimbleton's hiding place many yards of palelilac colored twill (or whatever it is) and a flask of iced tea. Inspite of distant sounds of warfare, the time passed pleasantly enough.Miss Chuff cut out and stitched assiduously; Quimbleton and Bleak,under her directions, sewed on the buttons snipped from the uniform.Birds twittered in the greenery about them, and they all felt somethingof the elation of a picnic when the garments were done and Quimbletonretired to a neighboring copse to make the change. The other two weretoo seriously concerned for his welfare to laugh when they saw him.

  "Spl
endid!" cried Bleak. "Now you can lie down in Miss Chuff's car andif any one looks in they'll just think you're part of the furnishings."

  "And I think we'd better get back to the car without delay," saidTheodolinda. "I'd like to get you out of this danger zone as soon aspossible."

  They hastened back to the wall, scaled it with the rope ladder--andstared in dismay. The car had gone. They could see it far down theroad, guarded by a group of Pan-Antis. A cordon of the enemy had beenthrown completely round the Home and escape was impossible. Worsestill, the treachery of Miss Chuff must have been discovered, and theytrembled to think what retaliation the Bishop might devise.

  In this moment of crisis Quimbleton regained his customary hardihood.Quilted in his lilac garments, with the white hedge of beard tossing inthe breeze, he looked the dashing leader.

  "There's only one thing to do," he said. "We're surrounded in thisplace. We must go to the Home, make common cause with the prisonersthere, and lead them in a sudden sally of escape."