virgil and theodolinda were returning from their honeymoon, which they had spent touring in quimbleton's spad plane. they had been in south america most of the time, where they found charming hosts eager to console them for the tragical developments in the northern continent.
it was a superb morning in early autumn when they were flying homeward. beneath them lay the green and level meadows of new jersey, and the dusky violet blue of the ocean shading to a translucent olive where long ridges of foam crumbled upon pale beaches. they turned inland, flying leisurely to admire the beauty of the scene. the mounting sun spread a golden shimmer over woods and corn-stubble. white roads ran like ribbons across the landscape. quimbleton glided gently downward, intending to skim low over the treetops so that his bride might enjoy the rich loveliness of the view.
suddenly the great plane dipped sharply, tilted, and very nearly fell into a side-slip. quimbleton was just able to pull her up again and climbed steeply to a safer altitude. he looked at his dashboard dials and indicators with a puzzled face. "very queer," he said to theodolinda through the speaking tube, "the air here has very little carrying power. it seems extraordinarily thin. you might think we were flying in a partial vacuum."
from the behavior of the plane it was evident that some curious atmospheric condition was prevailing. there seemed to be a large hole or pocket in the air, and in spite of his best efforts the pilot was unable to get on even wing. finally, fearing to lapse into a tail spin, he planed down to make a landing. beneath them was a beautiful green lawn surrounded by groves of trees. in the middle of this lawn they struck gently, taxied across the smooth turf, and came to a stop beneath a splendid oak. quimbleton assisted his wife to get out, and they sat down for a few minutes' rest under the tree.
"what a heavenly spot!" cried theodolinda, "i wonder where we are?"
"somewhere in new jersey," said her husband. "i don't understand what was the matter with the air. it didn't act according to hoyle."
they gazed about them in some surprise at the opulent beauty of the scene. it seemed to be a kind of park, laid out in lawns, gardens and shrubbery, with groves of old trees here and there. a little artificial lake twinkled in a hollow.
they happened to be gazing upward when a small round ball of tawny color fell from the tree. it was a robin. folded solidly for sleep, he fell unresisting by the flutter of a wing, turning over and over gently until he struck the turf with the tiniest of soft thuds. he bounced slightly, rolled a little distance, and settled motionless in the grass.
quimbleton, amazed, stooped over the fallen bird, supposing it to be dead. without lifting it from the ground he withdrew its head from under its wing. the bright eye unlidded and gazed at him sleepily. then the bird closed its eye with a certain weary resignation, put its head back under its wing, and relaxed comfortably in the grass.
quimbleton was no very acute student of nature, but this seemed very odd to him. and then, examining the lower limbs of the tree, he uttered an exclamation. he swung himself up into the oak and shook one of the branches. five other birds plopped comfortably into the grass and rested as easily as the first. he examined them one by one. they were all sound asleep.
"most amazing!" he said. "my dear, we will have to take up nature study. i am really ashamed of my ignorance. i always thought that owls were the only birds that slept by day."
theodolinda was looking at the five small bodies. she raised one of them gently, and sniffed gingerly.
"virgil," she said solemnly, "this is not mere slumber. these birds are drunk!"
quimbleton was about to speak when a grasshopper went by like an airplane, zooming in a twenty-foot leap. a bee sagged along heavily in an irregular zig-zag, and a caterpillar, more agile and purposeful than any caterpillar they had ever seen, staggered swiftly across a carpet of moss.
the same thought struck them simultaneously, and at that moment theodolinda noticed a small white signboard affixed to a tree-trunk in the grove. they ran to it, and saw in neat lettering:
to the perpetual souse, one mile
"bless me!" cried quimbleton. "what a stroke of luck! you know old bleak wrote us when we were in rio that he had been installed in his temple, but he didn't say where it was. let's toddle up and have a look at him. that's why the bus acted so queerly. no wonder: we were probably flying in alcohol vapor."
they walked through the grove and emerged upon a lawn that sloped gently upward. at the brow stood a beautiful little temple of greek architecture. as they approached they read, carved into the marble architrave:
aedes temulenti perpetui
e pluribus unum
the little porch, under the marble columns, was cool and shady. a signboard said: visiting hours, noon to midnight. quimbleton looked at his watch. "it's not noon yet," he said, "but as we're old friends i dare say he'll be willing to see us."
pushing through a slatted swinging door of beautifully carved bronze, they found themselves in a charmingly furnished reference library. there were lounges and deep leather chairs, and ash trays for smokers. quimbleton, who was something of a bookworm, ran his eye along the shelves. "a very neat idea," he said. "they have collected a little library of all the standard works on drink. this should be of great value to future historians and researchers."
through another swinging door they found the central shrine.
it was circular in shape, illuminated through a clear skylight. under the rotunda was a low, broad marble counter, surmounted by a gleaming mirror and a noble array of bottles, flasks, decanters, goblets and glasses of every size. the pale yellow of white wines, the ruby of claret, the tawny brown of port, the green and violet and rose of various liqueurs, sparkled in their appointed vessels. in front of this altar stood a three-foot mahogany bar, with its scrolled rim and diminutive brass rail, all complete. a red velvet cord hung from brass posts separated it from the open floor.
a series of mural paintings, in the vivid coloring and superb technique of maxfield parrish, adorned the walls of the room. they portrayed the history of alcohol from the dawn of time down to the summer of 1919. a space for one more painting was left blank, and mr. and mrs. quimbleton concluded that the artist was still at work upon the final panel.
an attendant in white was polishing glasses behind the tiny bar. he was an elderly man with a pink clean-shaven face and the initials p. s. were embroidered on the collar of his starched jacket. there was an air of evident pride in his bearing as he listened to their exclamations of admiration.
"your first visit, sir?" he said.
"yes," said quimbleton. "i must confess i had no idea it would be as fine as this. what time does mr. bleak get in?"
"he usually opens up with a nip of scotch about eleven-thirty," said the bartender. "just so as to get up a little circulation before opening time. he's got a hard afternoon before him to-day," he added.
"how do you mean?" said quimbleton.
"one of the excursion trains coming. the railroad runs cheap excursions here three days a week, and the crowds is enormous. when there's a bunch like that there's always a lot wants mr. bleak to take some special drink they used to be partial to, just to recall old times. of course, being what you might call a servant of the public, he doesn't like not to oblige. but i doubt whether he's got the constitution to stand it long. the other day the mint julep veterans of kentucky held a memorial day here, and mr. bleak had to sink fifteen juleps to satisfy them. i tell him not to push himself too far, but he's still pretty new at the job. he likes to go over the top every day."
"your face is very familiar," said theodolinda. "where have we seen you before?"
"i wondered if you'd recognize me," said the bartender. "i've shaved off my mustache. i'm jerry purplevein. when i was turned down in that election i thought this would be the next best thing. as a matter of fact, it's better. i don't really care for the stuff; i just like to see it around. miss absinthe felt the same way. she's head stewardess up to the hostess house."
"it seems to me i used to see you somewhere in new york," said quimbleton.
"i was head bar at the hotel pennsylvania," said jerry. "we had the finest bar in the world, had only been running a couple of months when prohibition come in. they turned it into a soda fountain. ah, that was a tragedy! but this is a grand job. government service, you see: sure pay, tony surroundings, and what you might call steady custom. mr. bleak is as nice a gentleman to mix 'em for as i ever see."
"but what is this for?" asked theodolinda, pointing to a beautiful marble cash register. "surely mr. bleak doesn't have to buy his drinks?"
"no, ma'am," said jerry, "but he likes to have 'em rung up same as customary. he says it makes it seem more natural. here he is now!"
jerry flew to attention behind the three-foot bar, and they turned to see their friend enter through the bronze swinging doors.
"well, well!" cried bleak. "this is a delightful surprise!"
he was dressed in a lounging suit of fine texture, and while he seemed a little thinner and paler, and his eyes a little weary, he was in excellent spirits.
"come," he said, "you're just in time for a bite of lunch. jerry, what's on the counter to-day?"
jerry bustled proudly over to the free-lunch counter, whipped off the steam-covers, and disclosed a fragrant joint of corned beef nestling among cabbages and boiled potatoes. with the delight of the true artist he seized a long narrow carving knife, gave it a few passes along a steel, and sliced off generous portions of the beef onto plates bearing the p. s. monogram. this they supplemented with other selections from the liberally supplied free-lunch counter. soft, crumbling orange cheese, pickles, smoked sardines, chopped liver, olives, pretzels—all the now-forgotten appetizers were laid out on broad silver platters.
"i wish i could offer you a drink," said bleak, "but as you know, it would be unconstitutional. with your permission, i shall have to have something. my office hours begin shortly, and some one might come in."
he took up his station at the little bar behind the velvet cord, and slid his left foot onto the miniature rail. jerry, with the air of an artist about to resume work on his favorite masterpiece, stood expectant.
"a little scotch, jerry," said bleak.
in the manner reminiscent of an elder day jerry wiped away imaginary moisture from the mahogany with a deft circular movement of a white cloth. turning to the gleaming pyramid of glassware, he set out the decanter of whiskey, a small empty glass, and a twin glass two-thirds full of water. his motions were elaborately careless and automatic, but he was plainly bursting with joy to be undergoing such expert and affectionate scrutiny.
bleak poured out three fingers of whiskey, and held up the baby tumbler.
"here's to the happy couple!" he cried, and drank it in one swift, practiced gesture. he then swallowed about a tablespoonful of the water. jerry removed the utensils, again wiped the immaculate bar, and rang the cashless cash-register. the perpetual souse smiled happily.
"that's how it's done," he said. "do you remember?"
"we're just back from south america," said quimbleton.
"some of the boys from the old balloon office were in here the other day," said bleak. "i'm afraid it was rather too much for them—in an emotional way, i mean. i tossed off a few for their benefit, and one of them—the cartoonist he used to be, perhaps you remember him—fainted with excitement."
"well, how do you like the job?" said quimbleton.
bleak did not answer this directly. making an apology to jerry and promising to be back in a few minutes, he escorted his visitors round the temple and gave them some of the picture postcards of himself that were sold to souvenir hunters at five cents each. he showed them the cafeteria for the convenience of visitors, the hostess house (where they found mrs. bleak comfortably installed), the ice-making machinery, the private brewery, and the motor-truck used to transport supplies. in a corner of the garden they found the children playing.
"it's a good thing the children enjoy playing with empty bottles," said bleak. "it's getting to be quite a problem to know what to do with them. i'm using some of them to make a path across the lawn, bury them bottom up, you know.
"but you ask how i like it? i would never admit it before jerry, because the good fellow expects more of me than i am able to fulfill, but as a matter of fact this is hardly a one-man job. there ought to be at least seven of us, each to go on duty one day a week. no—you see, being a kind of government museum, i don't even get sundays off because lots of people can only get here that day. next after mount vernon and independence hall, i get more visitors than any other national shrine. and almost all of them expect me to have a go at their favorite drink while they're watching me. being what you might call the most public spirited man in the country, i have to oblige them as much as possible. but i doubt whether i shall be a candidate for reelection.
"i think the government has rather overestimated my capacity," he continued. "they import a shipload of stuff from abroad every month, and send an auditor here to check over my empties. i've been hard put to it to get away with all the stuff. i've had to fall back on your old plan of using wine to irrigate the garden. it's had rather a dissipating effect on the birds and insects, though. really, you ought to spend an evening here some time. the birds sing all night long: they have to sleep it off in the morning. a robin with a hang-over is one of the funniest things in the world."
"we saw one!" cried theodolinda. "he was more than hanging over—he had fallen right off!"
"there's a butterfly here," said bleak—"rather a friend of mine, who can give a bumble bee the knock-out after he gets his drop of rum. i've seen him chase a wasp all over the lot."
from the temple came the sound of chimes striking twelve, and down in the valley they heard the whistle of a train.
"there's the excursion train leaving souse junction," said bleak. "i must get back to the bar!"
they returned to the shrine, and bleak entered his little enclosure.
"jerry," he said, "the crowd will soon be here. i must get busy. what do you recommend?"
"better stick to the scotch," said jerry, and put the decanter on the mahogany. bleak drank two slugs hastily, and turned to his friends with an almost wistful air.
"come again and stay longer," he said. "i see so many strangers, i get homesick for a friendly face." he called quimbleton aside. "does mrs. quimbleton keep up her trances?" he whispered.
"not recently," said virgil. "you see, in south america there was no necessity—but when we get settled—"
"you are a lucky fellow," whispered bleak. "all the enjoyment without any of the formalities!" and he added aloud, grasping their hands, "next time, come in the evening. a man in my line of work is hardly at his best before nightfall."
as they walked back to the plane, mr. and mrs. quimbleton saw the excursionists, a thousand or so, hastening through the park on foot and in huge sight-seeing cars where men with megaphones were roaring comments. one group of pedestrians bore a large banner lettered egg nog memorial association of camden, n. j.
"poor mr. bleak!" said theodolinda. "on top of all that scotch!"
when they took the air again they circled over the temple at a safe height. they could see the crowd gathered densely round the little white columns. virgil shut off the motor for a moment, and even at that distance they could hear the sound of cheers.
