One hundred and fifty-three nominated Scotch whiskey. The order
was filled without a slip. Quimbleton's face beamed above his
beard like a full-blown rose. "Magnificent!" he whispered to
Bleak, both of them having partaken in the second round. "If this
keeps on we'll have a charge of the tight brigade."

The next round was ninety-five Jack Rose cocktails, but the
audience was beginning to get out of hand. Those who had not yet
been served grew restive. They saw their companions with
brightened eyes and beaming faces, comparing notes as to this
delicious revival of old sensations. In the impatience of some and
the jubilation of others, the psychic concentration flagged a
little. Then, just as Quimbleton was about to ask for the fourth
round, the unforgiveable happened. Some one at the back shouted,
"A glass of buttermilk!"

Miss Chuff shuddered, quivered, and opened her eyes with a tragic
gasp. She slipped from the chair, and fell exhausted to the floor.
Bleak ran to pick her up. Quimbleton screamed out an oath.

"The spell is broken!" he roared. "There's a spy in the room!"

At that instant a battalion of armed chuffs burst into the hall.
They carried a huge hose, and in ten seconds a six-inch stream of
cold water was being poured upon the bewildered psychic tipplers.
Quimbleton and Bleak, seizing the girl's helpless form, escaped by
a door at the back of the platform.

"Heaven help us," cried Bleak, distraught. "What shall we do? This