t now? He was about to telephone to his city
editor to go ahead with the one o'clock edition as originally
planned....

From the sky came a roar of engines that drowned for a moment the
thundering echoes of the parade. The three gray planes, which had been
circling far above, swooped down almost to a level with the tops of the
buildings. One of these, a huge two-seated bomber, passed directly over
Bleak's head. He craned upward, and caught a glimpse of what he thought
at first was a white pennant trailing over the bulwark of the cockpit.
A snowy shag of whiskers came tossing down through the air and fell in
his lap. It was Quimbleton's beard, torn from its moorings by the tug
of wind-pressure. Bleak thrust it quickly in his pocket. As the great
plane passed over the head of the parade, flying dangerously low, every
face save that of the iron-willed Bishop was turned upward. But even in
their curiosity the rigid discipline of the Pan-Antis prevailed. Now
they were singing, to the tune of "The Old Gray Mare."

Old John Barleycorn, he ain't what he used to be
AIN'T WHAT HE USED TO BE--
AIN'T WHAT HE USED TO BE!
Old John Barleycorn, he ain't what he used to be,
Many a year ago.

The great volume of gusty sound, hurled aloft by these thousands of
sky-pointing mouths, created an air-pocket in which the bombing plane
tilted dangerously. For a moment, Bleak, who was watching the plane,
thought it was going to careen into a tail-spin and crash down fatally.
Then he saw Quimbleton, still recognizable by an adhering shred of
whisker, lean over the side of the fuselage.

A small dark object dropped through the air, fell with a loud POP on
the street a few yards in front of the Bishop. A faint green vapor
arose, misting for a moment the proud figures of Chuff and his horse.
At the same instant the other two planes, throbbing down the line of
the parade, discharged a rain of similar projectiles along the vacant
strip of paving between the marching chuffs and the police-lined curb.
An eddying emerald fume filled the street, drifting with the brisk air
down through all the ranks of the procession. There were shouts and
screams; the clanging bands squawked discordantly.

"Holy cat!" shouted the cartoonist--"Poison gas!"

"Nix!" said Bleak, revealing Quimbleton's secret in his excitement.
"Gooseberry bombs. Every chuff that inhales it will be properly soused.
Oh, boy, some story! Look at the Bish! He's got a s