As the frenzy of cheering died away, Quimbleton’s face took on the glow of simple benignance that Bleak had first observed at the time of the julep incident in the Balloon office.  The flush of a warm, impulsive idealism over-spread his genial features.  It was the face of one who deeply loved his fellow-men.

“My friends,” he said, “now I am able to say, in all sincerity, Here’s How.  I have great honor in presenting to you my betrothed fiancee, Miss Theodolinda Chuff.  Do not be startled by the name, gentlemen.  Miss Chuff, the daughter of our arch-enemy, is wholly in sympathy with us.  She is the possessor (happily for us) of extraordinary psychic powers.  I have persuaded her to demonstrate them for our benefit.  If you will follow my instructions implicitly, you will have the good fortune of witnessing an alcoholic seance.”

Miss Chuff, very pale, but obviously glad to put her spiritual gift at the disposal of her lover, was escorted to the platform by Bleak.  The editor had been coached beforehand by Quimbleton as to the routine of the seance.

“The first requirement,” 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.