The result of the polling was to be announced by a searchlight from the City Hall.  A white beam sweeping eastward would mean the election of Purplevein.  A white beam sweeping westward would mean the triumph of Miss Absinthe.  A steady red beam cast upward toward the zenith would indicate the victory of Bleak.

At ten o’clock that night a scream of cheers burst from millions of people packed along the city streets.  A clear, glowing shaft of red light leaped upward into the sky.  Dunraven Bleak had been elected Perpetual Souse.

Purplevein, who was rather a decent sort, hastened to Bleak’s hotel to offer his congratulations.  Bleak, who was sitting quietly with Mrs. Bleak, Quimbleton and Theodolinda, greeted him calmly.  Poor Purplevein was very much broken up, and Quimbleton and Theodolinda, in the goodness of their hearts, arranged a quiet little seance for his benefit.  They all sat their drinking psychic Three-Star in honor of the event.  As Quimbleton said, helping Purplevein back to his motor—­“Hitch your flagon to a Star.”

CHAPTER X

E PLURIBUS UNUM!

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.