p the small table and the brass rail, produce a
white apron and a tumbler from his knapsack, and introduce Theodolinda
for an alcoholic trance. It was found that the public entered into the
spirit of these seances with great gusto, and often the collection
taken up was gratifyingly large. However, the life was hazardous in the
extreme, and they were in perpetual danger of meeting secret service
agents. It was only by repeated private trances of their own that they
were able to keep up their morale.

Reaching a bend in the way, where a grove of trees cast a grateful
shade, the Decanterbury Pilgrims halted to rest. Quimbleton helped
Theodolinda down from her horse, and they all sat sadly by the roadside.

"Theo," said Quimbleton, as he wiped his brow, "do you think, dear,
that if I set up the table you could give us a little trance? Upon my
soul, I am nearly done in."

"Darling Virgil," said Theodolinda, "I really can't do it. You know
I've given you four trances already this morning, and you have communed
with the soul of Wurzburger at least a dozen times. Then, as you know,
I have put Mr. Bleak in touch with a julep six or seven times. All that
takes it out of me dreadfully. I really must consider my art a bit: I
don't want to be a mere psychic bartender, a clairvoyant distiller."

"You are quite right, dear girl," said Quimbleton remorsefully. "But I
couldn't help thinking how agreeable a psychical seidel of dark beer
would be just now. You are our little Jeanne Dark, you know," he added,
with an atrocious attempt at pleasantry.

"That's all very well," said Bleak (who preferred julep to beer), "but
if we don't look out Miss Chuff will go into a permanent trance. I've
noticed it has been harder and harder to bring her back from these
states of suspended sobriety. You know, if we crowd these phantasms of
the grape upon her too fast, she might pass over altogether, and stay
behind the bar for good. We are deeply indebted to Miss Chuff for her
adorable willingness to act as a kind of bunghole into the spirit
world, but we don't want her to slip through the hole and evaporate."

"Safety thirst!" cried Quimbleton, raising his loved one to his lips.

"We can't go on like this indefinitely," continued Bleak. "I don't mind
being a mountebank, but mountebanks don't pay much interest. I'd rather
be a safe deposit somewhere out of Chuff's reach. There's too much
drama in this way of living."

"I can stand the drama as lon