pass over altogether, and stay behind the bar for good. We are
deeply indebted to Miss Chuff for her adorable willingness to act
as a kind of bunghole into the spirit world, but we don't want her
to slip through the hole and evaporate."

"Safety thirst!" cried Quimbleton, raising his loved one to his
lips.

"We can't go on like this indefinitely," continued Bleak. "I don't
mind being a mountebank, but mountebanks don't pay much interest.
I'd rather be a safe deposit somewhere out of Chuff's reach.
There's too much drama in this way of living."

"I can stand the drama as long as I get the drams," said the
unrepentant Quimbleton.

"Well, _I_ won't stand it!" exclaimed Mrs. Bleak, shrilly. "Look
what your insane schemes have brought us to! You and my husband
seem to find comfort in your psychical toping, but I don't notice
any psychical millinery being draped about for Miss Chuff or
myself. And look at the children! They're simply in rags. If you
really loved Miss Chuff I should think you'd be ashamed to use her
as a spiritual demijohn! You've alienated her from her father, and
reduced my husband from managing editor of a leading paper to
managing jew's-harpist of a gang of psychic bootleggers." She
burst into angry tears.

Quimbleton groaned, and turned a ghastly fade upon Bleak.

"It's quite true," he said.