ement," said Quimbleton to the awe-struck gathering,
"is to put yourselves in the proper frame of mind. For that purpose I
will ask you all to stand up, placing one foot on the rung of a chair.
Kindly imagine yourselves standing with one foot on a brass rail. You
will then summon to mind, with all possible accuracy and vividness, the
scenes of some bar-room which was once dear to you. I will also ask you
to concentrate your mental faculties upon some beverage which was once
your favorite. Please rehearse in imagination the entire ritual which
was once so familiar, from the inquiring look of the bartender down to
the final clang of the cash-register. A visualization of the old free
lunch counter is also advisable. All these details will assist the
medium to trance herself."

Bleak in the meantime had carried a small table on the platform, and
placed an empty glass upon it. Miss Chuff sat down at this table, and
gazed intently at the glass. Quimbleton produced a white apron from
somewhere, and tied it round his burly form. With Bleak playing the
role of customer he then went through a pantomime of serving imaginary
drinks. His representation of the now vanished type of the bartender
was so admirably realistic that it brought tears to the eyes of more
than one in the gathering. The editor, with appropriate countenance and
gesture, dramatized the motions of ordering, drinking, and paying for
his invisible refreshment. His pantomime was also accurate and
satisfying, evidently based upon seasoned experience. The argument as
to who should pay, the gesture conveying the generous sentiment "This
one's on me," the spinning of a coin on the bar, the raising of the
elbow, the final toss that dispatched the fluid--all these were done to
the life. The audience followed suit with a will. A whispering rustle
ran through the dingy hall as each man murmured his favorite
catchwords. "Give it a name," "Set 'em up again," "Here's luck," and
such archaic phrases were faintly audible. Miss Chuff kept her gaze
fastened on the empty tumbler.

Suddenly her rigid pose relaxed. She drooped forward in her chair, with
her head sunk and hands limp. Tenderly and reverently Quimbleton bent
over her. Then, his face shining with triumph, he spoke to the hushed
watchers.

"She is in the trance," he said. "Gentlemen, her happy soul is in touch
with the departed spirits. What'll you have? Don't all speak at once."

Fifty-nine, in hushed voices, petition