ed for a Bronx. Quimbleton turned
to the unconscious girl.

"Fifty-nine devotees," he said, "ask that the spirit of the Bronx
cocktail vouchsafe his presence among us."

Miss Chuff's slender figure stiffened again. Her hand went out to the
glass beside her, and raised it to her lips. Some of the more eagerly
credulous afterwards asserted that they had seen a cloudy yellow liquid
appear in the vessel, but it is not improbable that the wish was father
to the vision. At any rate, the fifty-nine suppliants experienced at
that instant a gush of sweet coolness down their throats, and the
unmistakable subsequent tingle. They gazed at each other with a wild
surmise.

"How about another?" said one in a thrilling whisper.

"Take your turn," said Quimbleton. "Who's next?"

One hundred and fifty-three nominated Scotch whiskey. The order was
filled without a slip. Quimbleton's face beamed above his beard like a
full-blown rose. "Magnificent!" he whispered to Bleak, both of them
having partaken in the second round. "If this keeps on we'll have a
charge of the tight brigade."

The next round was ninety-five Jack Rose cocktails, but the audience
was beginning to get out of hand. Those who had not yet been served
grew restive. They saw their companions with brightened eyes and
beaming faces, comparing notes as to this delicious revival of old
sensations. In the impatience of some and the jubilation of others, the
psychic concentration flagged a little. Then, just as Quimbleton was
about to ask for the fourth round, the unforgiveable happened. Some one
at the back shouted, "A glass of buttermilk!"

Miss Chuff shuddered, quivered, and opened her eyes with a tragic gasp.
She slipped from the chair, and fell exhausted to the floor. Bleak ran
to pick her up. Quimbleton screamed out an oath.

"The spell is broken!" he roared. "There's a spy in the room!"

At that instant a battalion of armed chuffs burst into the hall. They
carried a huge hose, and in ten seconds a six-inch stream of cold water
was being poured upon the bewildered psychic tipplers. Quimbleton and
Bleak, seizing the girl's helpless form, escaped by a door at the back
of the platform.

"Heaven help us," cried Bleak, distraught. "What shall we do? This
means the firing squad unless we can escape."

Theodolinda feebly opened her eyes.

"O horrible," she murmured. "The spirit of buttermilk--I saw him--he
threatened me--"

"The horse!" cried Quimbleton, with fierce