“By means of my disguise,” whispered Quimbleton, “I was able to make a pleasant impression on the Bishop.  One evening I went to call on him.  I took the precaution to eat a green persimmon beforehand, which distorted my features into such a malignant contraction of pessimism and misanthropy that I quite won his heart.  He accepted an invitation to play croquet with me.  That afternoon I prepared the garden with a deluge of champagne.  The golden drops sparkled on every rose-petal:  the lawn was drenched with it.  After playing one round the Bishop was gloriously inflamed.  He had to be carried home, roaring the most unseemly ditties.  Since then, as I say, he has grown (I fear) a trifle suspicious.  But let us have a bite of supper.”

More than once, as they sat under a thickly leafy grape arbor in the quiet green enclosure, Bleak had to pinch himself to confirm the witness of his senses.  A table was delicately spread with an agreeable repast of cold salmon, asparagus salad, fruits, jellies, and whipped creams.  The flagon of dandelion vintage played its due part in the repast, and Mr. Bleak began to entertain a new respect for this common flower of which he had been unduly inappreciative.  Although the trellis screened them from observation, Quimbleton seemed ill at ease.  He kept an alert gaze roving about him, and spoke only in whispers.  Once, when a bird lighted in the foliage behind them, causing a sudden stir among the leaves, his shaggy beard whirled round with every symptom of panic.  Little by little this apprehension began to infect the journalist also.  At first he had hardly restrained his mirth at the sight of this burly athlete framed in the bush of Santa Claus.  Now he began to wonder whether his escapade had been consummated at too great a risk.

That old-fashioned quarter of the city was incredibly still.  As the light ebbed slowly, and broad blue shadows crept across the patch of turf, they sat in a silence broken only by the wiry cheep of sparrows and the distant moan of trolley cars.  The arrows of the decumbent sun gilded the ripening grapes above them.  Suddenly there were two loud bangs and a vicious whistle sang through the arbor.  Broken twigs eddied down upon the table cloth.

“Spotted mackerel!” cried Bleak.  “Is some one shooting at us?”

Quimbleton reappeared presently from under the table.  “All serene,” he said.  “We’re safe now.  That was only Chuff.  Every night about this time he comes out on his back gallery and enjoys a little sharp-shooting.  He’s a very good shot, and picks off the grapes that have ripened during the day.  There were only two that were really purple this evening, so now we can go ahead.  Unless he should send over a raiding party, we’re all right.”

The editor solaced himself with another beaker of the dandelion wine and they finished their meal in thoughtful silence.

“Mr. Bleak,” said the other at last, “it was something more than mere desire to give you a pleasant surprise that led me to your office this afternoon.  Have you leisure to listen?  Good!  Please try one of these cigars.  If, while I am talking, you should hear any one moving in the garden, just tap quietly on the table.  Tell me, have you, before to-day, ever heard of the Corporation for the Perpetuation of Happiness?”