that it might be feasible to shift the axis of the earth, so that the climate of the United States would become perceptibly cooler and the torrid zone would be transferred to the area of the North Pole.  This would have the supreme advantage of melting all the northern ice-cap and providing the temperate belts with a new supply of fresh water.  It would be quite easy (the Bishop insisted) to tilt the earth on its axis if everything heavy on the surface of the United States were moved up to Hudson’s Bay.  Accordingly he began to make arrangements to have the complete files of the Congressional Record moved to the far north in endless freight trains.

Dunraven Bleak, a good deal exhausted by his efforts to keep all these matters carefully reported in the columns of the Evening Balloon, was ready to take his vacation.  As a newspaper man he was able to get a passport to go into the country, on the pretext of observing the movements of the troops of the Pan-Antis, who were vigorously attacking the dandelion fields and gooseberry vineyards.  He had already sent his wife and children down to the seashore, in the last refugee train which had left the city before Nature was declared outlaw.

It was a hot morning, and having wound up his work at the office he was sitting in a small lunchroom having a shrimp salad sandwich and a glass of milk.  The street outside was thronged with great motor ambulances rumbling in from the suburbs, carrying the wilted remains of berries and fruits which had been dug up by the furious legions of Chuff.  These were hastily transported to the municipal cannery where they were made into jams and preserves with all possible speed, before fermentation could set in.  Bleak saw them pass with saddened eyes.

A beautiful gray motor car drew up at the curb, and honked vigorously.  The proprietor of the lunchroom, thinking that possibly the chauffeur wanted some sandwiches, left the cash register and crossed the pavement eagerly.  Every eye in the restaurant was turned upon the glittering limousine, whose panels of dove-throat gray shone with a steely lustre.  In a moment the proprietor returned with a large basket and a small folded paper, looking puzzled.  He glanced about the room, and approached Bleak.

“I guess you’re the guy,” he said, and handed the editor a note on which was scrawled in pencil

To the man with A penetrating gaze who has just spilled some shrimp salad on his Palm beach trousers

Bleak, after removing the shrimp, opened the paper.  Inside he read

Please bring two dozen rye-tongue sandwiches and as much shrimp salad as the basket will hold.  Am famished.

Quimbleton.