igorously for decorum.

"Upon my soul," he said, "This is the most fragrant garden I ever
smelt. What is that delicious odor in the air, that faint perfume--?"

"That subtle sweetness?" said Quimbleton, with unexpected drollery.

"Exactly," said Bleak. "That abounding and pervasive aroma--"

"That delicate bouquet--?"

"Quite so, that breath of myrrh--"

"That balmy exhalation--?"

Bleak wondered if this was a game. He tried valiantly to continue.
"Precisely," he said, "That quintessence of--"

He could coerce himself no longer, and burst into a yell of laughter.

"Hush!" said Quimbleton, nervously. "Some one may be watching us. But
the fragrance of the garden is something I am rather proud of. You see,
I water the flowers with champagne."

"With champagne!" echoed Bleak. "Good heavens, man, you'll get penal
servitude."

"Nonsense!" said Quimbleton. "The Eighteenth Amendment says that
intoxicating liquors may not be manufactured, sold or transported FOR
BEVERAGE PURPOSES. Nothing is said about using them to irrigate the
garden. I have a friend who makes this champagne himself and gives me
some of it for my rose-beds. If you spray the flowers with it, and then
walk round and inhale them, you get quite a genial reaction. I do it
principally to annoy Bishop Chuff. You see, he lives next door."

"Bishop Chuff of the Pan-Antis?"

"Yes," said Quimbleton--"but don't shout! His garden adjoins this. He
has a periscope that overlooks my quarters. That's why I have to wear
this disguise in the garden. I think he's getting a bit suspicious. I
manage to cause him a good deal of suffering with the fizz fumes from
my garden. Jolly idea, isn't it?"

Bleak was aghast at the temerity of the man. Bishop Chuff, the
fanatical leader of the Anti-Everything League--jocosely known as the
Pan-Antis--was the most feared man in America. It was he whose untiring
organization had forced prohibition through the legislatures of forty
States--had closed the golf links on Sundays--had made it a misdemeanor
to be found laughing in public. And here was this daring Quimbleton,
living at the very sill of the lion's den.

"By means of my disguise," whispered Quimbleton, "I was able to make a
pleasant impression on the Bishop. One evening I went to call on him. I
took the precaution to eat a green persimmon beforehand, which
distorted my features into such a malignant contraction of pessimism
and misanthropy that I quite won his heart. He a