In the Sweet Dry and Dry Read online

  CHAPTER III

  INCIDENT OF THE GOOSEBERRY BOMBS

  The day of the great parade dawned dazzling and clear, with everypromise of heat. From the first blue of morning, while the streets werestill cool and marble front steps moist from housemaids' sluicings,crowds of Bishop Chuff's marchers came pouring into the city. At theprearranged mobilization points, where bands were stationed to keep thethrongs amused until the immense procession could be ranged in line,the press was terrific. Every trolley, every suburban train, everyjitney, was crammed with the pan-antis, clad in white, carrying thebuttons, ribbons and banners that had been prepared for this greatoccasion. DOWN WITH GOOSEBERRIES, THE NEW MENACE! was the terrifyinglegend printed on these emblems.

  The Boulevard had been roped off by the police by eight o'clock, andthe pavements were swarming with citizens, many of whom had campedthere all night in order to witness this tremendous spectacle. As thesun surged pitilessly higher, the temperature became painful. Theasphalt streets grew soft under the twingeing feet of the Pan-Antis,and waves of heat radiation shimmered along the vista of themagnificent highway. To keep themselves cheerful the legions of Chuffsang their new Gooseberry Anthem, written by Miss Theodolinda Chuff(the Bishop's daughter) to the air of "Marching Through Georgia." Therousing strains rose in unison from thousands of earnest throats. Themajesty of the song cannot be comprehended unless the reader willpermit himself to hum to the familiar tune:--

  Root up every gooseberry where Satan winks his eye-- We will make the sinful earth a credit by and by: Europe may be stubborn, but we'll legislate her dry, And then we'll tackle the planets.

  Chorus:

  Hurrah! Hurrah! We're anti-everything-- Hurrah! Hurrah! An end to joy we sing: Come let's make life doleful and then death will lose its sting, Happiness is only a habit!

  Come then, all ye citizens, and join our stern Verein: We're the ones that put the crimp in whiskey, beer and wine; Booze is gone and soon we'll make tobacco fall in line, And then we'll tackle the planets.

  Chorus:

  Hurrah! Hurrah! We're anti-everything-- Hurrah! Hurrah! An end to joy we sing: Come let's make life doleful and then death will lose its sting, Happiness is only a habit!

  We'll abolish every fruit attempting to ferment-- We will alter Nature's laws and teach her to repent: Let the fatal gooseberry proceed where cocktails went, And then we'll tackle the planets.

  Chorus as before.

  From the beginning of the day, however, it became apparent that therewas a concerted movement under way to heckle the Pan-Antis. As theGooseberry Anthem came to an end a number of men were observed on theskyline of a tall building, wig-wagging with flags. All eyes wereturned aloft, and much speculation ensued among the waiting thousandsas to the meaning of the signals. Then a cry of anger burst from one ofthe section leaders, who was acquainted with the Morse code. The flagswere spelling WHAT A DAY FOR A DRINK! All down the Boulevard the whiteand gold banners tossed in anger. To those above, the mass of agitatedchuffs looked like a field of daisies in a wind.

  Shortly afterward the familiar buzz of airplane motors was heard, andthree silver-gray machines came coasting above the channel of theBoulevard. They flew low, and it was easy to read the initials C.P.H.painted on the nether surface of their wings. Over the front ranks ofthe parade (which was beginning to fall in line) they executed a seriesof fantastic twirls. Then, as though at a concerted signal, theydropped a cloud of paper slips which came eddying down through thesunlight. The chuffs scrambled for them, wondering. A sullen murmurrose when the messages were read. They ran thus:--

  TO MAKE GOOSEBERRY WINE

  (Paste This in Your Hat),

  Ten quarts of gooseberries, thoroughly crushed; Over these, five quarts of water are flushed. Twice round the clock let the fluid remain, Then through a sieve the blithe mixture you strain, Adding some sugar (not less than ten pound) And stirring it carefully, round and around.

  To the pulp of the fruit that remains in the sieve A gallon of pure filtered water you give: This you let stand for a dozen of hours, Then add to the other to strengthen its powers. Shut up the whole for the space of a day And it will ferment in a riotous way.

  When you see by the froth that the fluid grows thicker You, should skim it (with glee) for it's turning to liquor! While it ferments, please continue to skim: At the end, you may murmur the Bartender's Hymn. This makes a booze that is potent enough-- Seal in a hogshead--and hide it from Chuff!

  Corporation for the Perpetuation of Happiness.

  The Pan-Antis were still muttering furiously over this daring act ofdefiance when a shrill bugle-call pealed down the avenue. Bishop Chuffrode out into the middle of the street on his famous coal-blackcharger, John Barleycorn. There was a long hush. Then, with a wave ofhis hand, he gave the signal. One hundred bands burst into the somberand clanging strains of "The Face on the Bar-Room Floor." The greatparade had begun.

  From a house-top farther up the street Dunraven Bleak watched themcome. He had taken Quimbleton's word seriously, and with his usualenterprise had rented a roof overlooking the Boulevard, on whichseveral members of the Balloon staff were prepared to deal with anystartling events that might occur. A battery of telephones had beeninstalled on the house-top; Bleak himself sat with apparatus clamped tohis head like an operator at central. Two reporters were busy withpaper and pencil; the cartoonist sat on the cornice, with legs swingingabove two hundred feet of space, sketching the prodigious scene. Theyoung lady editor of the Woman's Page was there, with opera glasses,noting down the "among those present."

  It was an awe-inspiring spectacle. Between sidewalks jammed with silentand morose citizens, the Pan-Antis passed like a conquering army. Theterrible Bishop, the man who had put military discipline into the ranksof his mighty organization, rode his horse as the Kaiser would haveliked to ride entering Paris. His small, bitter, fanatical face wore adeeply carved sneer. His great black beard flapped in the breeze, andhe sang as he rode. Behind him came huge floats depicting in startlingtableaux the hideous menace of the gooseberry. Bands blared andcrashed. Then, rank on rank, as far as eye could see, followed thezealots in their garments of white. Each one, it was noticed, carried aneat knapsack. Huge tractors rumbled along, groaning beneath a tonnageof tracts which were shot into the watching crowd by pneumatic guns.Banners whipped and fluttered.

  The sound of shrill chanting vibrated in the blazing air like a visiblewave of power. These were conquerors of a nation, and they knew it. Aformer bartender, standing in the front of the crowd, caught Chuff'smerciless gaze, wavered, and swooned. A retired distiller, sitting inthe window of the Brass Rail Club, fell dead of apoplexy.

  Bleak trembled with nervousness. Had Quimbleton hoaxed him? What couldhalt this mighty pageant now? He was about to telephone to his cityeditor to go ahead with the one o'clock edition as originallyplanned....

  From the sky came a roar of engines that drowned for a moment thethundering echoes of the parade. The three gray planes, which had beencircling far above, swooped down almost to a level with the tops of thebuildings. One of these, a huge two-seated bomber, passed directly overBleak's head. He craned upward, and caught a glimpse of what he thoughtat first was a white pennant trailing over the bulwark of the cockpit.A snowy shag of whiskers came tossing down through the air and fell inhis lap. It was Quimbleton's beard, torn from its moorings by the tugof wind-pressure. Bleak thrust it quickly in his pocket. As the greatplane passed over the head of the parade, flying dangerously low, everyface save that of the iron-willed Bishop was turned upward. But even intheir curiosity the rigid discipline of the Pan-Antis prevailed. Nowthey were singing, to the tune of "The Old Gray Mare."

  Old John Barleycorn, he ain't what he used to be AIN'T WHAT HE USED TO BE-- AIN'T WHAT HE USED TO BE! Old John Barleycorn, he ain't what he used to be, Many a year ago.

/>   The great volume of gusty sound, hurled aloft by these thousands ofsky-pointing mouths, created an air-pocket in which the bombing planetilted dangerously. For a moment, Bleak, who was watching the plane,thought it was going to careen into a tail-spin and crash down fatally.Then he saw Quimbleton, still recognizable by an adhering shred ofwhisker, lean over the side of the fuselage.

  A small dark object dropped through the air, fell with a loud POP onthe street a few yards in front of the Bishop. A faint green vaporarose, misting for a moment the proud figures of Chuff and his horse.At the same instant the other two planes, throbbing down the line ofthe parade, discharged a rain of similar projectiles along the vacantstrip of paving between the marching chuffs and the police-lined curb.An eddying emerald fume filled the street, drifting with the brisk airdown through all the ranks of the procession. There were shouts andscreams; the clanging bands squawked discordantly.

  "Holy cat!" shouted the cartoonist--"Poison gas!"

  "Nix!" said Bleak, revealing Quimbleton's secret in his excitement."Gooseberry bombs. Every chuff that inhales it will be properly soused.Oh, boy, some story! Look at the Bish! He's got a snootful already--hisface has turned black!"

  "The whole crowd has turned black," said the cartoonist, almost fallingoff his perch in a frantic effort to see more clearly through the olivehaze that filled the street.

  It was true. Above the thousands of white figures, as they emerged fromthe intoxicating cloud-bank of gooseberry gas, grinned ghastly,inhuman, blackened faces, with staring goggle eyes. The Bishop was mostfrightful of all. His horse was prancing and swaying wildly, and theBishop's transformed features were diabolic. His whole profile hadaltered, seemed black and shapeless as the face of a tadpole. Theamazing truth burst upon Bleak. Chuff and his paraders were wearinggas-masks. These were what they had carried in their knapsacks.Indomitable Chuff, who had foreseen everything!

  "Poor Quimbleton," said Bleak. "This will break his heart!"

  "His neck too, I fancy," said one of the others, pointing to the sky,and indeed one of the three planes was seen falling tragically to earthbehind the tower of the City Hall.

  The cloud of gas was rapidly drifting off down the Boulevard, andthrough the exhilarating and delicious fog the Pan-Antis waved theirdefiant banners unscathed. The progress of the parade, however, washalted by the behavior of the Bishop's horse, for which no mask hadbeen provided. The noble animal, under this sudden and extraordinarystimulus, was almost human in its actions. At first it stood,whinneying sharply, and pawing the air with one forefoot--as thoughfeeling for the brass rail, as one of Bleak's companions said. Itraised its head proudly, with open mouth and expanded nostrils. Then,dashing off across the broad street, it seemed eager to climb alamp-post, and only the fierce restraint of the Bishop held it in. Oneof the chuffs (perhaps only lukewarm in loyalty), ran up and offered togive his mask to the horse, but was sternly motioned back to the ranksby the infuriated leader, who was wildly wrestling to gain control ofthe exuberant animal. At last the horse solved the problem by lyingdown in the street, on top of the Bishop, and going to sleep. Anambulance, marked Federal Home for Inebriates, Cana, N.J., dashed upwith shrilling gong. This had been arranged by Quimbleton, who hadwired a requisition for an ambulance to remove one intoxicated bishop.As the Bishop was quite in command of his faculties, the horse, aftersome delay, was hoisted into the ambulance instead. The Bishop wasgiven a dusting, and the parade proceeded. The self-control of thepolice alone averted prolonged and frightful disorder, for when theconduct of the horse was observed thousands of spectators foughtdesperately to get through the ropes and out into the fumes that stilllingered in wisps and whorls of green vapor. Others tore off theircoats and attempted to bag a few cubic inches of the gas in thesegarments. But the police, with a devotion to duty that was beyondpraise, kept the mob in check and themselves bore the brunt of thelingering acid. Only one man, who leaped from an office-window with animprovised parachute, really succeeded in getting into the middle ofthe Boulevard, and he refused to be ejected on the ground that he waschief of the street-cleaning department. This department, by the way,was given a remarkable illustration of the fine public spirit of thecitizens, for by three o'clock in the afternoon two hundred thousandapplications had been received from those eager to act as volunteerstreet-cleaners and help scour the Boulevard after the passage of thegreat parade.