cted boom for a Woman
Souse and nominated Miss Cynthia Absinthe as its candidate. The idea of
having a woman elected to this responsible office was disconcerting to
many citizens, but Miss Absinthe's record (as outlined by her publicity
headquarters) compelled respect. She was reputed to have been a
passionate and tumultuous consumer of sloe gin, and thousands of women
in white bartenders' coats marched with banners announcing:

ABSINTHE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER VOTE FOR CYNTHIA

and

OUR SLOGAN IS SLOE GIN

For a while there was quite a probability that the male vote would be
so split by Bleak and Purplevein that Miss Absinthe would come in
ahead. But at the height of the campaign she was found in a pharmacy
drinking a maple nut foam. After this her cause declined rapidly, and
even her most ardent partisans admitted that she would never be more
than an Intermittent Souse.

Purplevein's followers, in their desperate efforts to discredit Bleak,
overplayed their hand (as "practical politicians" always do). The
sagacious Quimbleton outmaneuvered them at every turn. Moderate
drinkers rallied round Bleak. Moreover, the Bleak party had an
irresistible assistant in the person of Miss Chuff, who put her trances
unreservedly at Dunraven's disposal. In this way Quimbleton was able to
produce his candidate before a monster mass meeting at the Opera House
in a state of becoming exhilaration. This forever put an end to the
rumor that Bleak was not a practical man. Miss Chuff also campaigned
strenuously among the women, where Purplevein (being a bachelor) was at
a disadvantage. "Vote for Bleak," cried Miss Chuff--"He has a wife to
help him." Purplevein's argument that the office of Perpetual Souse
should be an entirely stag affair fell dead before Theodolinda's
glowing description of the Hostess House which Mrs. Bleak would conduct
next door to the little temple which was to be erected by the
government for the successful candidate.

Despite the exhaustion of the campaign, Bleak stood it well.
Quimbleton, knowing the disastrous effects of over-confidence, kept his
man at fighting edge by a little judicious pessimism now and then, and
rumors of the popularity of Purplevein among the hard drinkers. Day
after day Quimbleton and Miss Chuff, after a little psychic communing,
would prop the editor among cushions in the big gray limousine and spin
him about the city and suburbs to bow, smile, say a few automatic words
a