In the meantime, Quimbleton had disappeared. The house on Caraway
Street was broken into by the police, but except for the grape
arbor and a great quantity of empty bottles in the cellar, no clue
was found. Apparently, however, the vanished ginarchist (for so
Chuff called him) had been writing poetry before his departure.
The following rather inscrutable doggerel was found scrawled on a
piece of paper:--

When Death doth reap
And Chuff is sickled,
He will not keep:
He was never pickled.

For Bishop Chuff
This is ill cheer:
That Time will force him
To the bier.

And when he stands
On his last legs
Then Death will drain him
To the dregs.

So when Chuff croaks
Bury him on a high hill--
For he's a hoax
Et praeterea nihil!

But Bishop Chuff was not the man to take these insults tamely. His