He could coerce himself no longer, and burst into a yell of
laughter.

"Hush!" said Quimbleton, nervously. "Some one may be watching us.
But the fragrance of the garden is something I am rather proud of.
You see, I water the flowers with champagne."

"With champagne!" echoed Bleak. "Good heavens, man, you'll get
penal servitude."

"Nonsense!" said Quimbleton. "The Eighteenth Amendment says that
intoxicating liquors may not be manufactured, sold or transported
FOR BEVERAGE PURPOSES. Nothing is said about using them to
irrigate the garden. I have a friend who makes this champagne
himself and gives me some of it for my rose-beds. If you spray the
flowers with it, and then walk round and inhale them, you get
quite a genial reaction. I do it principally to annoy Bishop
Chuff. You see, he lives next door."

"Bishop Chuff of the Pan-Antis?"

"Yes," said Quimbleton--"but don't shout! His garden adjoins this.
He has a periscope that overlooks my quarters. That's why I have
to wear this disguise in the garden. I think he's getting a bit
suspicious. I manage to cause him a good deal of suffering with
the fizz fumes from my garden. Jolly idea, isn't it?"

Bleak was aghast at the temerity of the man. Bishop Chuff, the
fanatical leader of the Anti-Everything League--jocosely known as