And now, my friends—­not to weary you with the minor details of this far-reaching proposal—­let me come to the point.  For so gravely responsible a post, for an office so representative of the ideals and ambitions of millions, the choice cannot be cast haphazard.  The choice must fall upon one qualified, confirmed, consecrated to this end.  This deeply significant office must be conferred by the people themselves.  It must be conferred by popular election.  Candidates must be nominated, must stump the country explaining their qualifications.  And let me say that, upon looking over the whole field, I see one man, who by the jury of his peers—­or shall I say by the jury of his beers?—­is supremely fitted for this post.  It is my intention to nominate Mr. Dunraven Bleak for the office of Perpetual Souse.”

There was a moment of complete silence while his hearers considered the vast scope of this remarkable suggestion.  It is only fair to say that Mr. Bleak’s face had at first lighted up, but then he glanced at his wife and his countenance grew pinched.  He spoke hastily: 

“A very generous thought, my dear fellow; but I feel that you would be far more competent for this form of public service than I could hope to be.”

“Your modesty does you credit,” replied Quimbleton, “but you forget that owing to my relation with Miss Chuff I shall happily be precluded from the necessity of entering public life for this purpose.”

“And what, pray,” said Mrs. Bleak with distinct asperity, “is to become of me and the children if Mr. Bleak is elected to this preposterous office?”

“I was coming to that,” said Quimbleton eagerly.  “It would be arranged, of course, that the Perpetual Souse would be granted a liberal salary for his family expenses; you and your delightful children would be maintained at the public expense in a suitable bungalow nearby, with a private family entrance into the official cellars.  Your rank, of course, would be that of Perpetual Spouse.”

“My good Quimbleton,” said Bleak, somewhat bitterly, “this is a fascinating vision indeed, but how can it be accomplished?  How would you ever get such a scheme accepted by Bishop Chuff, who will never forgive you for kidnaping his daughter?  You are building bar-rooms in Spain, my dear chap; you are blowing mere soap-bubbles.”

“And why not?” cried his friend.  “Bishop Chuff has called me a soap-box orator.  At any rate, a man who stands upon a soap-box is nearer heaven by several inches than the man who stands upon the ground.”

Theodolinda’s face sparkled with the impact of an idea.

“Come,” she said, “it’s not impossible after all.  I have a thought.  We’ll offer Father an armistice and talk things over with him.  He doesn’t know what straits we’re in, and maybe we can bring him to terms.  He was very badly scared by those gooseberry bombs, and maybe we can bluff him into a concession.”

“If we had had any luck,” said Quimbleton, “we would have blown him into a concussion.  But anyway, that’s a bonny scheme.  We’ll grant him a truce.  Bleak, you’re a newspaper man, just get hold of the United Press and let them know the armistice is signed.”