roadside. His tired eyes shone anew with characteristic
enthusiasm. It was plain that he imagined himself before a large
and sympathetic audience.

"My friends," he said, "the secret of eloquence is to know your
facts--or, as the all-powerful Chuff would amend it, to know your
tracts. One fact, I think I may say, is plain. The jig is up, or
(more literally), the jag is up. I can see now that alcohol will
never be more than a memory. Principalities and powers are in
league against us. If the malt has lost its favor, wherewith shall
it be malted?"

He paused a moment, as though expecting a little applause, and
Theodolinda murmured an encouraging "Here, here."

With rekindled eye he resumed.

"Alcohol, I say, will never be more than a memory. Yet even a
memory must be kept alive. The great tradition must not die. For
the very sake of antiquarian accuracy, for the instruction of
posterity, some exact record must be kept of the influence of
alcohol upon the human soul. How can this be preserved? Not in
books, not in the dead mummies of a museum. No, not in dead
mummies, indeed, but in living rummies. That brings me to my great
idea, which I have long cherished.

"I propose, my dear friends, that in some appropriate shrine,
surrounded by all the authentic trappings and utensils, some
chosen individual be maintained at the public charge, to exhibit
for the contemplation of a drouthing world the immortal flame of