ething of a bookworm, ran his eye along the
shelves. "A very neat idea," he said. "They have collected a little
library of all the standard works on drink. This should be of great
value to future historians and researchers."

Through another swinging door they found the central shrine.

It was circular in shape, illuminated through a clear skylight. Under
the rotunda was a low, broad marble counter, surmounted by a gleaming
mirror and a noble array of bottles, flasks, decanters, goblets and
glasses of every size. The pale yellow of white wines, the ruby of
claret, the tawny brown of port, the green and violet and rose of
various liqueurs, sparkled in their appointed vessels. In front of this
altar stood a three-foot mahogany bar, with its scrolled rim and
diminutive brass rail, all complete. A red velvet cord hung from brass
posts separated it from the open floor.

A series of mural paintings, in the vivid coloring and superb technique
of Maxfield Parrish, adorned the walls of the room. They portrayed the
history of Alcohol from the dawn of time down to the summer of 1919. A
space for one more painting was left blank, and Mr. and Mrs. Quimbleton
concluded that the artist was still at work upon the final panel.

An attendant in white was polishing glasses behind the tiny bar. He was
an elderly man with a pink clean-shaven face and the initials P. S.
were embroidered on the collar of his starched jacket. There was an air
of evident pride in his bearing as he listened to their exclamations of
admiration.

"Your first visit, sir?" he said.

"Yes," said Quimbleton. "I must confess I had no idea it would be as
fine as this. What time does Mr. Bleak get in?"

"He usually opens up with a nip of Scotch about eleven-thirty," said
the bartender. "Just so as to get up a little circulation before
opening time. He's got a hard afternoon before him to-day," he added.

"How do you mean?" said Quimbleton.

"One of the excursion trains coming. The railroad runs cheap excursions
here three days a week, and the crowds is enormous. When there's a
bunch like that there's always a lot wants Mr. Bleak to take some
special drink they used to be partial to, just to recall old times. Of
course, being what you might call a servant of the public, he doesn't
like not to oblige. But I doubt whether he's got the constitution to
stand it long. The other day the Mint Julep Veterans of Kentucky held a
memorial day here, and Mr. Bleak had to sin