“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.

CHAPTER XI

IT’S A LONG WORM THAT HAS NO TURNING

Bishop Chuff sat sourly in his office and sighed for more worlds to canker.  Round the room stood the tall filing cases containing card indexes of prohibited offences, and he looked gloomily over the crowded drawers in the vain hope of finding something that had been overlooked.  He pulled out a drawer at random—­Schedule K-36, Minor Social Offenses—­and ran his embittered eye over a card.  It was marked Conversational Felonies, and began thus: 

    Arguing
    Blandishing
    Buffoonery
    Contradicting
    Demurring
    Ejaculating
    Exaggerating
    Facetiousness
    Giggling
    Hemming and Hawing
    Implying
    Insisting
    Jesting