I did not drink the rum.

Ambassador Minton did a lot of ambassadorial, gourmand saluting with his coconut, pretending to love all men and all the beverages that sustained them. But I did not see him drink. He had with him, incidentally, a piece of luggage of a sort I had never seen before. It looked like a French horn case, and proved to contain the memorial wreath that was to be cast into the sea.

The only person I saw drink the rum was H. Lowe Crosby, who plainly had no sense of smell. He was having a good time, drinking acetone from his coconut, sitting on a cannon, blocking the touchhole with his big behind. He was looking out to sea through a huge pair of Japanese binoculars. He was looking at targets mounted on bobbing floats anchored offshore.

The targets were cardboard cutouts shaped like men.

They were to be fired upon and bombed in a demonstration of might by the six planes of the San Lorenzan Air Force.

Each target was a caricature of some real person, and the name of that person was painted on the targets' back and front.

I asked who the caricaturist was and learned that he was Dr. Vox Humana, the Christian minister. He was at my elbow.

"I didn't know you were talented in that direction, too."

"Oh, yes. When I was a young man, I had a very hard time deciding what to be."

"I think the choice you made was the right one."

"I prayed for guidance from Above."

"You got it."

H. Lowe Crosby handed his binoculars to his wife. "There's old Joe Stalin, closest in, and old Fidel Castro's anchored right next to him."

"And there's old Hitler," chuckled Hazel, delighted. "And there's old Mussolini and some old Jap."

"And there's old Karl Marx."

"And there's old Kaiser Bill, spiked hat and all," cooed Hazel. "I never expected to see _him_ again."

"And there's old Mao. You see old Mao?"

"Isn't _he_ gonna get it?" asked Hazel. "Isn't _he_ gonna get the surprise of his life? This sure is a cute idea."

"They got practically every enemy that freedom, ever had out there," H. Lowe Crosby declared.

A Medical Opinion on the 103

Effects of a Writers' Strike

None of the guests knew yet that I was to be President. None knew how close to death "Papa" was. Frank gave out the official word that "Papa" was resting comfortably, that "Papa" sent his best wishes to all.

The order of events, as announced by Frank, was that Ambassador Minton would throw his wreath into the sea, in honor of the Hundred Martyrs; and then the airplanes would shoot the targets in the sea; and then he, Frank, would say a few words.

He did not tell the company that, following his speech, there would be a speech by me.

So I was treated as nothing more than a visiting journalist, and I engaged in harmless _granfalloonery_ here and there.

"Hello, Mom," I said to Hazel Crosby.

"Why, if it isn't my boy!" Hazel gave me a perfumed hug, and she told everybody, "This boy's a Hoosier!"

The Castles, father and son, stood separate from the rest of the company. Long unwelcome at "Papa's" palace, they were curious as to why they had now been invited there.

Young Castle called me "Scoop." "Good morning, Scoop. What's new in the word game?"

"I might ask the same of you," I replied.

"I'm thinking of calling a general strike of all writers until mankind finally comes to its senses. Would you support it?"

"Do writers have a right to strike? That would be like the police or the firemen walking out."

"Or the college professors."

"Or the college professors," I agreed. I shook my head. "No, I don't think my conscience would let me support a strike like that. When a man becomes a writer, I think he takes on a sacred obligation to produce beauty and enlightenment and comfort at top speed."

"I just can't help thinking what a real shaking up it would give people if, all of a sudden, there were no new books, new plays, new histories, new poems . . ."

"And how proud would you be when people started dying like flies?" I demanded.

"They'd die more like mad dogs, I think--snarling and snapping at each other and biting their own tails."