al
by the Pan-Antis. Evidently the use of Quimbleton's name had been a
ruse.

"It was unfair of you to make use of Quimbleton's name to get me into
your hands," he said angrily.

Miss Chuff turned a momentary gaze of amusement upon him, as they
passed a large tractor drawing several truckloads of gooseberry plants.

"You don't understand," she said demurely. "You may remember that Mr.
Quimbleton's card gave his name as associate director of the Happiness
Corporation?"

"Yes," said Bleak.

"I am the Director," she said.

"YOU? But how can that be? Why, your father--"

"That's just why. Any one who had to live with Father would be sure to
take the opposite side. He's a Pan-Anti. I'm a Pan-Pro. Those poems I
have written for him were merely a form of camouflage. Besides, they
were so absurd they were sure to do harm to the cause. That's why I
wrote them. I'll explain it all to you a little later."

At this moment they were held up by an armed guard of chuffs, stationed
at the city limits. These saluted respectfully on seeing the Bishop's
daughter, but examined Bleak's passport with care. Then the car passed
on into the suburbs.

As they neared the fields of actual battle, Bleak was able to see
something of the embittered nature of the conflict. In the hot white
sunlight of the summer morning platoons of Pan-Antis could be seen
marching across the fields, going up from the rest centers to the
firing line. In one place a shallow trench had been dug, from which the
chuffs were firing upon a blackberry hedge at long range. One by one
the unprincipled berries were being picked off by expert marksmen. The
dusty highway was stained with ghastly rivulets and dribbles of scarlet
juices. At a crossroads they came upon a group of chuffs who had shown
themselves to be conscientious objectors: these were being escorted to
an internment camp where they would be horribly punished by confinement
to lecture rooms with Chautauqua lecturers. War is always cruel, and
even non-combatants did not escape. In the heat of combat, the
neutrality of an orchard of plum trees had been violated, and
wagonloads of the innocent fruit were being carried away into slavery
and worse than death. A young apple tree was standing in front of a
firing squad, and Bleak closed his eyes rather than watch the tragic
spectacle. The apples were all green, and too young to ferment, but the
chuffs were ruthless once their passions were roused.

They passed