Part 10 (2/2)
Virgil and Theodolinda were returning from their honeymoon, which they had spent touring in Quimbleton's Spad plane. They had been in South America most of the time, where they found charming hosts eager to console them for the tragical developments in the northern continent.
It was a superb morning in early autumn when they were flying homeward.
Beneath them lay the green and level meadows of New Jersey, and the dusky violet blue of the ocean shading to a translucent olive where long ridges of foam crumbled upon pale beaches. They turned inland, flying leisurely to admire the beauty of the scene. The mounting sun spread a golden s.h.i.+mmer over woods and corn-stubble. White roads ran like ribbons across the landscape. Quimbleton glided gently downward, intending to skim low over the treetops so that his bride might enjoy the rich loveliness of the view.
Suddenly the great plane dipped sharply, tilted, and very nearly fell into a side-slip. Quimbleton was just able to pull her up again and climbed steeply to a safer alt.i.tude. He looked at his dashboard dials and indicators with a puzzled face. ”Very queer,” he said to Theodolinda through the speaking tube, ”the air here has very little carrying power. It seems extraordinarily thin. You might think we were flying in a partial vacuum.”
From the behavior of the plane it was evident that some curious atmospheric condition was prevailing. There seemed to be a large hole or pocket in the air, and in spite of his best efforts the pilot was unable to get on even wing. Finally, fearing to lapse into a tail spin, he planed down to make a landing. Beneath them was a beautiful green lawn surrounded by groves of trees. In the middle of this lawn they struck gently, taxied across the smooth turf, and came to a stop beneath a splendid oak. Quimbleton a.s.sisted his wife to get out, and they sat down for a few minutes' rest under the tree.
”What a heavenly spot!” cried Theodolinda, ”I wonder where we are?”
”Somewhere in New Jersey,” said her husband. ”I don't understand what was the matter with the air. It didn't act according to Hoyle.”
They gazed about them in some surprise at the opulent beauty of the scene. It seemed to be a kind of park, laid out in lawns, gardens and shrubbery, with groves of old trees here and there. A little artificial lake twinkled in a hollow.
They happened to be gazing upward when a small round ball of tawny color fell from the tree. It was a robin. Folded solidly for sleep, he fell unresisting by the flutter of a wing, turning over and over gently until he struck the turf with the tiniest of soft thuds. He bounced slightly, rolled a little distance, and settled motionless in the gra.s.s.
Quimbleton, amazed, stooped over the fallen bird, supposing it to be dead. Without lifting it from the ground he withdrew its head from under its wing. The bright eye unlidded and gazed at him sleepily. Then the bird closed its eye with a certain weary resignation, put its head back under its wing, and relaxed comfortably in the gra.s.s.
Quimbleton was no very acute student of nature, but this seemed very odd to him. And then, examining the lower limbs of the tree, he uttered an exclamation. He swung himself up into the oak and shook one of the branches. Five other birds plopped comfortably into the gra.s.s and rested as easily as the first. He examined them one by one. They were all sound asleep.
”Most amazing!” he said. ”My dear, we will have to take up nature study. I am really ashamed of my ignorance. I always thought that owls were the only birds that slept by day.”
Theodolinda was looking at the five small bodies. She raised one of them gently, and sniffed gingerly.
”Virgil,” she said solemnly, ”this is not mere slumber. These birds are drunk!”
Quimbleton was about to speak when a gra.s.shopper went by like an airplane, zooming in a twenty-foot leap. A bee sagged along heavily in an irregular zig-zag, and a caterpillar, more agile and purposeful than any caterpillar they had ever seen, staggered swiftly across a carpet of moss.
The same thought struck them simultaneously, and at that moment Theodolinda noticed a small white signboard affixed to a tree-trunk in the grove. They ran to it, and saw in neat lettering:
TO THE PERPETUAL SOUSE, ONE MILE
”Bless me!” cried Quimbleton. ”What a stroke of luck! You know old Bleak wrote us when we were in Rio that he had been installed in his temple, but he didn't say where it was. Let's toddle up and have a look at him. That's why the bus acted so queerly. No wonder: we were probably flying in alcohol vapor.”
They walked through the grove and emerged upon a lawn that sloped gently upward. At the brow stood a beautiful little temple of Greek architecture. As they approached they read, carved into the marble architrave:
AEDES TEMULENTI PERPETUI E PLURIBUS UNUM
The little porch, under the marble columns, was cool and shady. A signboard said: Visiting Hours, Noon to Midnight. Quimbleton looked at his watch. ”It's not noon yet,” he said, ”but as we're old friends I dare say he'll be willing to see us.”
Pus.h.i.+ng through a slatted swinging door of beautifully carved bronze, they found themselves in a charmingly furnished reference library.
There were lounges and deep leather chairs, and ash trays for smokers.
Quimbleton, who was something of a bookworm, ran his eye along the shelves. ”A very neat idea,” he said. ”They have collected a little library of all the standard works on drink. This should be of great value to future historians and researchers.”
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