The SPIRIT of TOFFEE

By Charles F. Myers

Things were bad enough for Marc without
having a friendly ghost messing up his
life—but Toffee only made matters worse!...

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Adventures November 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

In his private office the guiding light of the Pillsworth Advertising Agency sat behind his desk and looked slightly haunted.

And Marc Pillsworth was not the sort to look haunted without a good and sufficient reason. In this case, the reason seemed to be not only good and sufficient but rather spine-tingling into the bargain. Marc closed his eyes and made a real effort to suppress a nagging impulse to scream. But when he looked again the situation across the room had not noticeably bettered itself; the shoe was still in front of the chair, hanging indolently in mid-air.

In the last few minutes Marc had closed his eyes repeatedly, telling himself that the shoe was only a product of his imagination, an apparition born of a mind that had given way under an overwhelming burden of financial and domestic worries. But always, when he opened his eyes again, the shoe was still there, resting rakishly on nothing at all, seeming to stare at him evilly with its beady eyeletes. Also, there was something about the hateful thing that bespoke its owner's rather pungent personality. It had a look about it that was unmistakably aw-go-to-hell. It was a look that Marc found particularly distasteful, for it could mean only one thing. No getting away from it. George was back. And Marc wished he wasn't.

Marc had learned of George's existence through a previous experience so bitter it all but galled him just to think about it. When the ghost, Marc's own, to be explicit, had first descended to this region under the misapprehension that Marc had accidentally terminated his own earthly sojourn, he immediately impressed himself on everyone as a trouble maker of the first hot water. And, as though his strikingly original haunting activities hadn't been enough, he had resorted to random methods of mayhem in an effort to make Marc's demise an untidy actuality so that he, George, might thereby secure his own position as a permanent earthly "haunt." The affair had not been a picnic for Marc.

Though the wayward spectre, when materialized, was an exact duplicate of Marc in all physical respects, there the similarity did a screaming about face and streaked rapidly in the opposite direction. Where Marc was sober and serious-minded, George was a veritable connoisseur of all things viceful and frivolous. And where Marc was inherently honest, modest and retiring, George was frankly a crook, a braggart and rank exhibitionist. Also, it was not consoling that the spirit was extremely careless in the manipulation of his ectoplasm ... a thing that any other, right-minded ghost would go to any lengths not to be.

If Marc looked on the reappearance of George without pleasure, his attitude was not entirely unwarranted.

Marc glanced at the shoe again and shuddered. Absently he wondered how he would ever manage to explain the silly thing if someone should suddenly pop into the office unannounced. Obviously, something had to be done about it; he couldn't just let it go on dangling there, looking smug and complacent like that. And certainly it showed no inclination to leave of its own accord. In fact, it seemed quite content, as though it might just go on hanging around forever. Clearly, the situation demanded positive action. With quiet deliberation Marc lifted a bronze paper weight from his desk and aimed it with care.

The weight only grazed the toe of the shoe and fell dully to the carpet. But at least it produced some effect. The shoe instantly vanished. Marc leaned back and pressed a trembling hand to his eyes. Then he glanced quickly up through a haze of apprehension as a voice ... a duplicate of his own ... echoed across the room.

"Well, I'll be damned!" it exclaimed. "My ectoplasm must have slipped. How long has that shoe been showing?"

"Showing?" Marc said in a voice sounding a good deal less like his own than the other. "The awful thing has had me close to gurgling dementia for nearly ten minutes now. And if you must speak to me, please have the decent good grace to show yourself. It makes my spine fairly lurch to hear a voice coming out of nowhere like that."

Marc didn't realize the folly of his request until too late. Piecemeal, an arm, a leg, a mid-section at a time, George became visible, looking exactly like Marc right down to the last button.

Marc gazed on this phenomenon with utmost revulsion. "Can't you materialize all at the same time?" he asked fretfully. "Do you always have to come into my presence looking like the victim of a hatchet murder?"

George grinned agreeably. "Sorry," he said. "Can't concentrate on everything at once, you know."

"It seems you could at least concentrate on consecutive things," Marc grumbled. "You needn't break out like a rash." He looked up and blanched. Neckless, George's head was hovering over his collar like a loosely anchored balloon. "Oh, Lord!" he gasped. "How sordid!"

The head glanced around pleasantly, unaware of its airy isolation. It gazed admiringly down the length of the lean body beneath it. "Rather a nice job," it said proudly. "No foggy spots. Everything very flesh-and-bloody looking, I think."

"Bloody is right!" Marc croaked. "It all but drips with gore. For heaven sake complement that head with a neck before I scream."

George flushed prettily, closed his eyes and obliged. The missing neck sprang cooperatively into place. To Marc the spectacle was almost as repulsive as the disconnected head.

"Don't ever do that again," he breathed. "I'd never live through it."

"I'll try to be more careful in the future," George agreed.

Marc turned a quizzical eye on the ghost. He was being far too agreeable ... almost sickeningly so. In his face there was a sort of determined pleasantness that looked ill at ease in such unfamiliar surroundings. A suspicion stirred vaguely in the back of Marc's mind.

"If you think you're going to kill me with kindness, you back-stabber, just forget it. It won't work."

"How can you think such things?" George asked woundedly.

"It just came to me, all of a sudden, looking at your smirking face."

"You do me a terrible injustice," George replied. "You cut me to the quick."

"Believe me," Marc said relentlessly, "I'd make it deeper if I could."

"You're going to be ashamed you've spoken to me like this," George said. "I've come here to do you a favor."

"Then do me one. Go away. I've enough trouble as it is."

"Trouble?" George asked with sudden interest. "What kind of trouble?"

"Everything serious," Marc said. "Especially now that you're here."

George smiled thoughtfully. "Conditions seem about perfect for my mission," he murmured.

"Mission?" Marc looked on the spirit with open consternation.

"It's the High Council," George explained. "The big brass in the spirit world. They're making me do penance for the way I behaved the last time I was here." A shame-faced expression swept over his features. "They threw the book at me. They say I've set Spirit-Mortal relations back five hundred years and knocked their good neighbor policy into a cocked hat. Anyway, the upshot of the thing is that they've ordered me back here to haunt you until I've done you a good turn to make up for last time. And if I don't...." Here his voice broke with emotion and he shuddered. "They've only given me thirty-six hours to make good." He waved an unhappy hand at his materialized body. "And I can't stay like this too long, either. They only gave me an emergency issue of ectoplasm, so I have to use it sparingly." He looked at Marc pleadingly. "Though the idea thoroughly repels me, you've just got to let me do something nice for you. What can I do?"

"Off hand," Marc said unpleasantly, "I can think of any number of things for you to do. Without exception they are fatal and extremely messy."

"You don't like me very well, do you?"

"Since you force me to say it," Marc said flatly, "you disgust me. You disgust me through and through."

George glanced up, interested. "Through and through what?" he asked.

Marc's hand slapped hard against the desk. "Now, don't start that!" he grated. "This time, keep your simpering banalities to yourself."

"I only wanted to know...."

"Enough!"

"But if I'm going to do something nice for you," George continued doggedly, "I have to know what's troubling you, don't I? That's why I've been sitting around here half the night and all morning. Ever since midnight, I've been waiting right here for something to turn up that I could help you with."

Marc looked distressed. "Must you help me, George?" he pleaded. "Can't you just go on back to this Council thing of yours and tell them everything's all right. Tell them I love you like a brother. Lie your head off. You can do it. Only, please, please, don't try to help me."

George sank back in his chair with a sigh. "I couldn't do that," he said. "If I did, they'd...."

Suddenly he stopped speaking as a knock sounded on the door. He shot Marc an anxious glance.

"Dematerialize!" Marc hissed. "Disappear!"

George was instantly out of his chair, completely confused in his eagerness to do exactly as Marc wished. First a leg disappeared, then an arm, then his entire torso became foggy and vaporous. Suddenly the arm and leg reappeared again. He looked up at Marc, panic stricken, as the lower part of his face faded up to the nose, then stopped. He closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate with all his will. For a moment his entire body flickered like a weakening light bulb, disappeared, and promptly rematerialized in total.

"For Pete's sake!" Marc cried. "Do you have to keep flashing on and off like an electrical advertisement? Fade out, will you?"

The distress in George's face was genuine. He was earnestly doing everything he could to cooperate. "I'm too excited," he said. "Emotional disturbances always react on me this way."

The knock suddenly sounded on the door again, and Marc started as though he'd been struck. "Calm down!" he yelled. "For the love of heaven, be calm!"

George nodded, closed his eyes and breathed deeply several times. Slowly, a section at a time, he faded from sight.

Marc turned relievedly to the door. "Come in!" he called. Then turning back, he suddenly yelled, "No! Stay out!"

Like a great brown rat, George's shoe was loping lazily across the room. Apparently the spirit was habitually forgetful of this particular extremity. Marc raced after it and came abreast of it just as it reached the chair. He swung his foot behind him and kicked viciously. The shoe faded just in time to save itself, and Marc's foot collided painfully with the chair. Moaning, he sat down helplessly on the floor and began to nurse the offended member. Then, at the sound of Memphis' voice, he glanced up with horrified eyes. The secretary was observing him interestedly from the doorway.

"A new dance step?" she asked tonelessly.

"Just ... just getting a little exercise," Marc stammered lamely. "Got to tone up the old system once in a while, you know. Push-ups." He flexed his arms in half-hearted demonstration.

Memphis moved uncertainly into the room and closed the door. "Look out that chair doesn't push back," she said.

Marc laughed nervously and got to his feet. "I slipped," he said.

"Well," Memphis said resignedly, "since you've already cracked, I guess these can't hurt you too much." She extended a hand full of papers and dropped them on the desk. "Bills," she announced.

"The show?" Marc asked soberly.

Memphis nodded. "I dropped in at rehearsal last night, just out of morbid curiosity." She said it in a tone of voice generally reserved for use in funeral parlors and morgues. "I caught one of Julie's numbers." A look of utmost discomfort rested curiously on her ruddy face. "Sorry, Mr. Pillsworth."

Obviously Memphis was acting as the close friend who always consoles the bereaved.

Marc didn't know when the bug of theatrical ambition had begun to gnaw at the foundations of his home, but he was willing to bet an attractive sum that the craven little termite had been at its ravenous work for years, considering the matrimonial and financial devastation its insidious activities had wrought in just the last few weeks.

Julie's days as a model and "lady of the chorus" had dawned and waned long before Marc had ever met her. And that being the case, he was all too willing to forgive and forget them. Even in moments of domestic stress, when their handsome ghosts stalked arrogantly through his parlor, bedroom and bath, keeping Julie company as she proclaimed her intention to leave him and resume her "career" ... even then he refused to pay them any serious attention.

However, he might have displayed more wisdom had he given those days all the studied attention due a plan of atomic control, particularly during the last few months, during which, in Julie's reminiscences, they had taken on a more intense, misty-eyed glamour. But what Marc didn't know was that one of Julie's erstwhile chorus girl friends had recently arrived at a rather spectacular Broadway success.

For Julie, certain envious reactions had followed this event like a poison oak rash after an active day in the woods. The persistent weed of ambition that had been languishing in her innermost heart all these years suddenly flourished and blossomed forth like a tangle of deadly nightshade. From that moment on, though Marc was blissfully unaware of it at the time, the future of the Pillsworth marriage and bankroll was in deadly peril. Even Marc's better judgment was in jeopardy, for when it came to psychological warfare, Julie was just the girl to teach the War Department a trick or two that would probably curl its hair. It was no time at all before Marc was financing a fabulously expensive musical comedy, entitled "Love's Gone Winging," and wondering what had ever possessed him. And all this on top of several outstandingly bad investments. The future was dusky indeed, if it still existed at all.

Marc stared unhappily at Memphis. "Pretty bad, huh?" he asked.

"If I told you what I think of your wife's talents, Mr. Pillsworth," Memphis said regretfully, "you'd either have to fight me or fire me. Maybe both. Mrs. Pillsworth may be a star tonight, but I bet she does a faster nose-dive than Halley's Comet. I hope she's getting a good rest today. She's going to need her strength."

Marc shook his head. "Got any idea what the total costs are so far?"

Memphis gazed unhappily out the window. "I'd rather not say," she murmured. "You'd think I was lying. I would, too. There just isn't that much money." Her gaze moved self-consciously from the window to the carpet. "The bank wants to see you right away," she added. "They were gentle but, oh, so firm."

Marc flinched. "I guess I'll have to see them," he said. "While I'm gone be a good secretary and make me a reservation in the nearest bread line."

"Don't give up the ship," Memphis said. "We can at least go down fighting. Even if it's only the creditors. In the meantime, business as usual. What do you want me to do about the Carmichael Aspirin Account?"

"I don't know," Marc said wearily. "See if they give free samples."

Memphis crossed to the door. "Well," she said with forced jauntiness, "I'll think of something. Maybe I'll just roll it up and fry it in deep fat." She slapped her girdle. "And I'm just the kid that could do it."

When she had gone, Marc turned forlornly to the window. He wasn't actually thinking of jumping, he was just wondering how long it would be before he did start thinking of it. Then he started as invisible hands began to pat industriously at the back of his coat.

"Stop that!" he yelled.

"I was only brushing you off," George's voice said, near at hand. "You got a little messed up on the floor."

"I'll dust myself," Marc said. "Thank you, just the same."

"I sure wish I could think of a way to straighten things out for you."

"Just forget it," Marc said. "Don't trouble your invisible little head about it."

"You need money," George mused. "That's the key to the whole problem as I see it."

"Sometimes," Marc said sarcastically, "you show signs of true genius."

George made strange musing noises for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Where's Toffee?"

Marc started visibly. He hadn't thought of Toffee in a long time, and he didn't particularly want to think of her now. One supernatural creature at a time was more than enough. Especially at a time like this.

Also, Marc was shudderingly mindful of Toffee's intimate relationship with pandemonium; the two of them romped about, hand in hand, like a pair of grade-school sweethearts. The most remarkable thing about Toffee, though, was that, in fact as well as fancy, she sprang from the very depths of Marc's own subconscious mind. Marc had long ago reconciled himself to the uneasy fact that his mind sheltered a precocious spirit who might, at almost any moment, be released into the world of actuality, and materialize right there before his astonished eyes. Then, too, there was Toffee's penchant for snatching the affairs of his life from his own grasp and instilling in them the breath of sheer madness. It was a difficult pill to swallow, and one that was rarely graced with a sugar coating. Even if she did manage to leave his life in a fair state of repair, her methods always put him through such a rigorous program of mental anguish that the end seemed hardly to justify the means at all. Marc tried to turn his thoughts away from her, for to think of her might easily start the chain of psychological reaction that always provoked her reappearance. He wished that George hadn't remembered the girl from his previous visit.

"I don't know where she is," he said. "Let's just try to forget her, shall we? Things are confused enough already. In the meantime, I've got to get down to the bank." He frowned thoughtfully. "But what am I going to do with you?"

"Oh, I'll come along!" George said eagerly. "There's no telling where I might stumble onto just the sort of thing I'm looking for. What's a bank?"

"They keep money in a bank," Marc said absently. Finally he shrugged. "I guess I'll just have to put you on your honor, though I've a feeling it's rather like putting a man-eating tiger on a lettuce diet. You'll have to promise to stay here and keep out of sight. I'll lock the office door so no one will walk in and surprise you. Do you promise?"

A perfunctory "uh-huh" echoed from George's direction. Then there was a brief scuffling sound and Marc's hat whirled crazily from the rack in the corner, flashed across the room and settled in a raffish angle on its owner's startled head. Invisible hands began to fuss at Marc's tie.

"Don't!" Marc cried. "How often do I have to tell you I don't want to be helped? Why can't you be yourself? I think I liked you better when you were trying to do me in."

"I want you to make a good impression," George explained.

Marc started toward the door. "That's very nice of you, I'm sure. But all I ask is that you just remember to behave yourself while I'm away."

"Oh, I will!" George's voice proclaimed earnestly. "I will!"

If Marc's mind hadn't been so filled with dread of the impending meeting at the bank he might have noticed that the voice was being just a little too earnest.

Marc turned the grey business coupe into a side street and headed for the parking lot behind the bank. He wasn't thinking too much, though, about what he was doing. Instead, his mind was occupied with a sneaking suspicion. There was something strange about the car, something odd about the feel of it and the way it rode. The body seemed to lean to the left a bit, almost as though someone were clinging to the side. Also, there had been the incident at the intersection, when a truck had broken through the light and headed directly toward the grey coupe. He could have sworn someone yelled at him to look out, someone very close to his left ear. It had given him a creepy feeling at the time. And thinking back on it, he was no longer so certain about the gust of wind that had brushed past him as he was closing the office door. It might have been....

Reaching the parking lot, he swung the car quickly to the right, into a drive, and pressed down on the gas as it turned onto a short, steep incline. Then he went tense in his seat. The post and chain barrier hadn't been visible from the street. Neither had the sign saying, "Use Other Entrance." And now that they were visible, there wasn't time to do anything about them. Sign, posts and chain were swarming over the car in a rush.

There was a tearing, whacking sound and the coupe jerked wickedly to the right. Suddenly, the steering wheel seemed to be leaving its post, spiraling upward toward Marc's face. A split second later everything went black to the raucous accompaniment of a blaring horn.

The horn continued to scream in the darkness, and, to Marc, its windy blast seemed to be hurling him outward. He shot swiftly out and up into lightless, unknown regions, his body curiously unhampered by the faintest trace of atmospheric resistance. He sailed through space, arms outspread, unrestrained, as though in a vacuum, and strangely, he felt wonderfully free, almost exultant. As he moved further into the distance the sound of the horn took on a thin, silvery tone that was almost musical.

Then, slowly, like a projectile approaching the apex of its arc, his body began to lose momentum. For a time there was the sensation of treading air as a swimmer treads water. Gradually, he churned to a complete, suspended stop. He felt himself hovering precariously in mid-air, and then, all of a sudden, he plunged downward.

In his descent there was no sense of easy motion as there had been before. Instead, he was falling rapidly, hurtling through the dark, a tangled mass of helpless arms and legs. His efforts to fight the force that was sucking him downward were useless. Then, sooner and more easily than he had expected, he came to rest. All at once there was a soft, cool surface beneath him that seemed to give with his weight, then lift him gently.

But his relief was shattered by a sudden, terrifying blast from the ghostly horn. Instantly, light began to show through the blackness which was being ripped into fleeting whisps and fragments by a strong, angry wind. Oddly, though, the wind didn't seem to affect Marc; it was blowing all about him without stirring so much as a hair on his head. He sat up and gazed at the scene before him as the last remnants of the shredded blackness disappeared into the distance. At once, the wind died and everything became quiet.

Marc was in the very center of a small grove of strange feathery trees that seemed to have deliberately arranged themselves into a perfect circle. A light blue mist lay motionless beneath the trees, blending softly into the green mossy carpet upon which he was resting. There was a cool restfulness about the place which he recognized at once. It was the feeling that always came to him when he entered the valley of his own mind.

He threw his hands out behind him on the grass and leaned back luxuriously. He was just closing his eyes when a soft sound whispered against the grass behind him. He started to swing about, but he was too slow. Mid-way, two cool hands pressed down gently over his eyes and two lips closed simultaneously over his mouth. The lips were not nearly so cool or so gentle as the hands, and they went directly to the business of kissing him with an air of abandon and authority. Marc struggled away from them.

"Guess who, you old monster," a voice whispered gaily.

"Unhand me, you perfidious little heller," Marc grated.

"Beast!"

The hands snapped away from Marc's eyes, and he looked up to see Toffee scowling down at him. Her green eyes were alive with annoyance, and her red hair hung loosely about her shoulders like cascading flame. Her transparent emerald-colored tunic was, as always, a completely disinterested party when it came to the matter of concealing her comely figure. One gold-sandaled foot was tapping a silent tattoo against the grass.

"Sometimes," she said evenly, "you turn my stomach. The way you keep shoving me away from you all the time, you'd think I wasn't gorgeous or something. It's beginning to ruin my self-confidence. Just a little peck or pat at the proper moment wouldn't hurt you any, you know."

"Do you have to be quite so effusive with your greetings?" Marc asked timidly. "Couldn't we just shake hands?"

"Shake hands!" Toffee exploded. "If that doesn't take the brass-lined girdle! I don't care what you shake. You can shimmy from one end of this valley to the other, but you needn't expect me to be a party to it. I wash my hands of you. And good riddance!"

And with that, she retreated to the far side of the grove and draped herself angrily against a tree, arms folded. She regarded Marc icily from the corner of her eye.

"Of all the thankless, gutless worms, I would have to wind up with you," she muttered. "You'd look good with your ugly head bashed in."

Marc flinched. "I'm sorry," he began cautiously. "I...."

Toffee was instantly in his arms, and he hadn't the faintest idea how she had gotten there.

"I knew you couldn't resist me," she cooed. "If you're really sorry...."

"Wait a minute!" Marc yelped, trying to free himself. "I didn't mean...."

The words froze on his lips. Over Toffee's slender shoulder he could see the blackness, whole again, rushing down on him, borne on the tide of the shrieking wind. His hands grew limp on Toffee's wrists as the darkness closed in swiftly and snuffed out the last glowing light of the quiet valley.

Then the wind caught them full force, and for a moment they swayed together under its sudden impact. Marc tried to get to his feet, but it was useless. Already, they were being lifted upward, shooting outward into space. Toffee's arms tightened around Marc's neck.

"Since you apologize," she whispered in his ear, "I forgive you."

Marc stirred and opened his eyes with an effort. Instantly, inside his head, a tin-pan symphony swung into a jangling rendition of "Hold That Tiger," and whaled it to a fare-thee-well. The universe seemed to rotate once, twice, and then skidded to a jittery stop and remained fixed. The discordant symphony became muted and distant. Marc discovered confusedly that he was in a sort of small shack-like structure. Bare boards with blinking knot holes stared back at him from an unlovely ceiling. Then an aged head blurred into sight, looking down at him with worried concern. It made a terrible clicking noise with its mouth and moved off to one side. Marc felt strengthless arms moving about his shoulders and with their negligible help, boosted himself into a sitting position. The owner of the head, a little, worried-looking man, was crouching beside him.

"You come around pretty fast," he wheezed. "Ain't really been out no time at all. You had me scared at first, though. Thought maybe you was hurt bad."

Marc stared out a slit-like door that was directly in front of him. Beyond, a row of assorted automobiles testified to his whereabouts. His memory jogged back a bit and arrived successfully at the accident in the drive.

"How's my car?" he asked.

"Not so bad," the man replied. "Bumper's ripped off, and the radiator's not so fancy as she used to be, but it still runs good. I drove it around here to the shack for you. Want me to call a doctor?"

Marc got shakily to his feet and awaited results. His nose throbbed dully, but the rest of him seemed all right. "Never mind," he said. "I'm okay."

"Guess the steering gear smacked you in the nose," the little man observed mildly. "Guess I shoulda put that sign down on the street. Sorry."

Marc nodded curtly and went outside. The grey coupe was standing alongside the shack, looking a little crestfallen with its twisted bumper draped loosely over one crinkled fender. He stared at it unhappily.

Then he stiffened.

There was a movement inside the car and a brief flash of red.

"It's on fire!" he yelled.

"I do believe," the sign-hider collaborated calmly. "Maybe we should look."

Marc ran to the car, the little man ambling casually along in his wake. Then they both stopped short as the red flash repeated itself at the window and was suddenly followed up with a puckish face. Toffee, her chin poised on the sill, peered out at Marc relievedly.

"I was wondering where you were," she said. "Thought maybe you'd been crumpled up on the floor. You really mashed things up, didn't you?"

"Oh, Lord!" Marc moaned. "Now I've got you on my hands!"

"It would be better," Toffee said insinuatingly, "if you had me in your arms."

At this point the little man shuffled over to Marc's side. "Well, I'll be!" he exclaimed. "I didn't see no woman in there before." He peered at Toffee nearsightedly, "You're one of them redheaded hussies, ain't you?"

"How did you know?" Toffee asked.

"Oughta know," the man said cryptically. "The old woman always blasphemin' about redheaded hussies."

"What does she say?" Toffee asked interestedly.

"Couldn't repeat it," the little man said, "even to a hussy."

"Then you can believe every word of it," Toffee said. And opening the door, she stepped lightly out of the car.

The little man gasped at Toffee's faintly obscured charms. "Oh, lady!" he sighed. "The old lady didn't say nothin' about anything like that!"

By this time, Marc was already at Toffee's side. He reached inside the car and quickly drew out a rather unkempt fur coat. It was one of Julie's old ones that she used for driving in cold weather. Fortunately, no one had remembered to remove it from the car. He threw it unceremoniously around Toffee's shoulders.

"It would make a refreshing change," he said darkly, "if you showed up just once without being in a state of indecent exposure."

"There are some," Toffee sneered, "who think this is one of the most decent exposures they've ever seen. And I'm inclined to agree with them."

Marc was in no mood to argue the point. He stared nervously at the inquisitive little man. "Let's get out of here," he said. "Accident or no accident I have to go to the bank."

As they left the little man behind and walked toward the sidewalk Marc poured out his troubles to Toffee. He told her of George's untimely reappearance and the unpleasant business at the bank. Mostly, though, he entered a stirring plea for her cooperation and good behavior. They had nearly reached the street when he suddenly stopped and raised a finger to his lips. A crunching noise sounded briefly on the gravel behind them, then stopped guiltily.

"What's that?" Toffee asked.

"Maybe nothing," Marc said. But he feared the worst.

Marc left Toffee just inside the bank entrance with firm instructions to remain where she was, to do nothing and say nothing until he returned. Also, he advised that she keep Julie's coat drawn tightly around her as certain misunderstandings were sure to arise if she did not. Toffee nodded and cooperated to the extent that she gave the appearance of a mute paralytic freezing in a snowstorm. The effect did not become her.

Upstairs, on the mezzanine, Marc made his way fearfully toward the president's office, a glass-fronted arrangement that overlooked the main floor of the bank like a guard tower in a concentration camp. As Marc approached, the president, looking up, caught sight of him and raced him to the door. The scene reminded Marc of a saber-toothed shark he had once observed in an aquarium, pursuing a small unidentified fish with murderous intent. Pausing for a moment, he glanced wistfully down at Toffee standing by the door.

Then he turned quickly and ran to the rail.

Even from that distance the mark of horror was plain on Toffee's face. Marc followed her stricken gaze and came very close to screaming.

Downstairs, in the clerk's enclosure, a riot seemed to have broken loose behind the counters. At first glance it seemed the clerks were merely rough-housing among themselves, but a second look told an entirely different story. It was a scene that flagrantly thumbed its nose in the face of credulity, spat on the carpet of comprehension and sashayed out the door of sanity with an airy flip of the hip.

The bank was thrown into a state of confusion as the money bags floated toward the door....

A pair of large money sacks, bearing the bank's name on their coarse sides, had plainly taken wing in a fit of convulsive madness. And whatever else these frightful sacks may have had on their minds, it was certain they possessed a boundless hatred for bank clerks. Progressing from the door leading into the vaults, they were savagely bludgeoning their way through the windowed enclosure, leaving a litter of prostrate figures and wilted white collars in their wake. The fugitive bags were making it emphatically clear that they would brook no nonsense from any faction desiring to frustrate them in their desire to be away from there. The current clientele of the bank was hastily arranging itself against the opposite wall.

One of the clerks, having miraculously escaped the ravages of battle, was streaking up the stairs to the mezzanine in a state of gibbering hysteria. Reaching Marc and the president who was now gasping at Marc's side, the fellow slowed to a sliding stop and began visibly to wilt with terror. The president grabbed him quickly beneath the arms and held him away from the floor.

"What is it?" he yelled. "What's going on down there? Tell me!"

The clerk shivered in his employer's arms. "I ... I don't know," he gasped. "I ... I was down in the vaults ... in the vaults ... making up the payroll for the Reedley Chemical Works ... and ... and...." His voice trailed off into a shuddering whine. "It was aw-w-w-ful!"

The president shook him energetically. "What happened?" he demanded. "Speak up, you ninny!"

The clerk's eyes rolled loosely in their sockets, fell inadvertently on the scene below and darted away. "Those two sacks of money ... they were behind me ... they went crazy all of a sudden. They flew up into the air and started singing and carrying on something terrible! Then ... then, they started out the door ... well, I tried to stop them. At first I tried being nice about it ... I tried to reason with them ... and ... and they struck me! And that isn't all! Those are the most foul-mouthed money bags in existence!"

The bank president promptly dropped the clerk to the floor. "The fellow's hysterical," he said. "It's a plot, a foul plot to rob this bank! Where are the police?" He stared over the rail and his question was promptly answered. The bank police, two of them, were trembling outside the enclosure, trying to nudge each other forward. "They practice the rhumba," he screamed, "while the bank is looted!"

At this point Marc left the president abruptly, vaulted over the collapsible clerk and made his way to the stairs. Half way down the flight he paused and prepared to take the second half in one heroic leap. There was no question in his mind that his suspicion had borne the deadly fruit he had feared; George had indeed followed him to the bank. Now the soulless shade, in a burst of misguided boy-scoutishness, was blithely playing fast and loose with the Reedley Chemical Works' payroll.

Marc made his appearance on the scene of strife in a confused sprawl that was far from heroic. Then, he sat up, bewilderment written into every line of his face. Not until this moment had he stopped to consider the course that he was about to take. Clearly, to be seen in close association with those demented sacks would be to invite disaster. The implication would be entirely clear to everyone, especially to the irate bank president. The only safe procedure, then, was to stay clear of the whole affair and let the money bags shift for themselves, which they seemed to be doing with remarkable agility from the sound of things behind the enclosure. Then he started with shock as a hand fell to his shoulder. He glanced up to find Toffee standing beside him.

"Don't do that!" he fairly screamed. "Don't scare me like that!"

"I don't blame you for being jumpy," Toffee said. "At the moment I could easily vault a twelve story building by sheer nerve power. That's the most soul-shattering thing I've ever witnessed."

"Help me up," Marc begged. He extended a hand toward Toffee, then promptly leaped to his feet, unaided.

Victorious at last, the dashing bags suddenly emerged around the end of the clerk's enclosure and sailed through the hinged barrier like a pair of high-spirited, slightly drunken seagulls. At the sight of them, the two policemen, who had finally managed to disengage their guns from their holsters, suddenly turned on each other in panic.

"Do something," one of them hissed. "Call a cop ... I mean, yell at 'em to stop. Say halt or you'll shoot. That's always good."

The other fidgeted self-consciously. "I'd feel silly," he demurred. "You yell at 'em."

"I'd feel silly, too," the other admitted grudgingly. "Silly as hell." He gave the matter his thoughtful attention. "Tell you what," he said finally. "Let's just turn the other way and make out we don't see. It's nothing no human eyes should be gazing at anyway. It's indecent to say the least."

Simultaneously, the cops turned their broad backs on the fearful spectacle and pretended to engage each other in casual conversation. "Tell me," one of them was heard to say in a strained voice, "and how is that charming wife of yours? And those two darling children?"

This chatty arrangement, however, was not destined to endure. The president's voice rang down from the mezzanine with such a volley of scalding invective and personal criticism that the two reluctant officers decided it would be the lesser evil to face their duty and do it, even if their souls fried in hell as the result.

By now the flying bags had singled out Marc and Toffee and were headed toward them in an affectionate rush.

"Go way!" Marc yelled desperately. "Beat it!"

But the bags were not to be put off so easily. They continued forward, dancing through the air in a sort of bottom-heavy samba.

"Let's take steps!" Toffee cried. "Lots and fast! Let's get the hell out of here before those fiendish bags put the finger on us!"

Physically, mentally and spiritually, Marc was in complete and utter accord with Toffee's suggestion. His whole being longed to its very depths to be away from those awful bags and the tailor-made life of crime that George so obviously meant to force upon him. Taking Toffee's arm he took as few steps as possible to the main entrance and swung the door open. Behind, the bags hesitated, seeming somewhat taken aback at this unfriendly gesture, then with a sort of shrug, started out in playful pursuit. The two policemen, their duties now engraved on their sluggish minds in letters of flame, joined the chase reluctantly.

Marc and Toffee headed instinctively toward the parking lot behind the bank, set on giving themselves every possible mechanical advantage in this mad race for respectability. Behind them, the bags steadily lost ground right from the start, probably because their weight held back their ghostly means of locomotion. Still further back, the two policemen, plugging along in their own flat-footed way, were hardly in the running at all.

Marc and Toffee reached the grey coupe at about the same instant and threw themselves on it like a couple of drowning sailors who had just sighted a lifeboat. In the midst of their frenzied activities the wizened attendant appeared at the door of the shack and watched with quiet interest.

"Wildest pair of young folks I ever seen," he murmured. "Leapin' around all over the place like they was crazy in the head or somethin'. Nervous type I guess."

Unmindful of the attendant's concern over their hurried activities, Marc touched the starter and put the car into rapid motion. There was a sharp hiss as the tires spit gravel into the air, and a second later a loud clatter announced the abandonment of the wrecked bumper.

But with the rapid exit of the grey coupe and its harried occupants, the little attendant's worries were destined to increase rather than diminish. No sooner did the car disappear down the drive than two bags, alarmingly on their own, flashed onto the scene and presented themselves before him in mid-air.

The little man looked at them, rubbed his eyes and looked again. For a long, tense moment he continued to stare at them. Then he turned about and stepped abruptly inside the shack, closing the door firmly behind him. He lowered himself into an ancient rocking chair, sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

"Keep a grip on yourself, you old fool," he muttered. "Sun spots ain't nothin' to get excited about. What if they do have People's Trust printed on 'em?"

The little man's grip on himself, however, might have slipped considerably had he remained outside to witness the subsequent movements of the "sun spots." Racing to a green sedan, they threw the door open and disappeared inside. A moment later the car, with no apparent aid, leaped from its place in line, grazed the fender of its neighbor, and went rolling swiftly down the drive.

As it was, two other grips were rudely pried loose by the incident. The two policemen, standing on the sidewalk, watched with horror-glazed eyes as the driverless sedan darted playfully toward them, then bounded over the curb and started in spirited pursuit of the grey coupe. To the one nearest the diabolical car this was not only the last straw, but the whole final load of hay. He turned disillusioned eyes on his companion.

"That's done it," he said in a hollow voice. "After fifteen years on the Force I'm going down to headquarters and fling this badge of mine smack in the Chief's homely mush."

"You can't do that," his partner protested, fingering his own badge. "You'd be quitting in the face of duty."

"If that's the face of duty," the saddened law enforcer replied, "then it had better be lifted before it gets any worse. I'd rather be buddies with Frankenstein."

"We gotta at least make an effort," his friend reasoned. "After all, them sacks ain't armed. And maybe there'll be a reward for their capture."

This last thought seemed to put a fairer complexion on the face of duty. The two trudged to the center of the street and hailed a passing taxi.

"Follow that car," the more enterprising of the two growled, directing the driver's attention to the careening sedan three blocks distant. "And if you catch it, I'll have you stored in the pokey for the rest of your life."

In the grey coupe Marc was driving with a suicidal brilliance such as he had never before displayed. Some sainted sixth sense took him safely in and out and around cars at times when it seemed that sudden death would surely be the result. All the while, Toffee busied himself with the diverting task of observing and reporting the progress of their pursuers from the rear window. The green sedan appeared to be doing dishearteningly well, probably because of its driver's hair-raising disregard for any and all traffic laws. George, with a splendid lack of prejudice, was using both sides of the street indiscriminately. On the other hand, the taxi wasn't faring nearly so well. Actually, it didn't seem to be really trying. According to Toffee's lights, it showed a distressing, sissy tendency to play strictly according to the rules.

Probably the only thing that prevented this lunatic chase from strewing the streets with death and tragedy was its early and untimely end. Allowed to continue to its ultimate conclusion, unrestrained, heaven only knows what madness might have ensued. The beginning of the end came swiftly when Marc cut the coupe screamingly through an alley and onto a side street.

Emerging from the alley, full speed ahead, he suddenly rocked the car to a jouncing stop that sent Toffee flying into his lap. Ahead and behind, the street was jammed to its curbs with automobiles of all descriptions, their horns bewailing their predicament in no uncertain terms. It was the worst traffic jam Marc had ever seen, and by some miraculous maneuver that even he, himself, couldn't believe, he had managed to wedge the grey coupe very nearly into its center.

From Marc's lap, Toffee reached slender arms toward his neck. "You impetuous boy," she giggled. "We love in the midst of danger."

Marc shoved her rudely back onto the seat. "We'll languish in the midst of Sing Sing, if we don't look out," he growled. "Where is that green sedan?"

Toffee peered out the window. "Good grief!" she cried. "It just pulled up in the alley. It's so close I could hit it with a pebble."

"Hit it with a bomb." Marc moved to Toffee's side just in time to witness the arrival of the cop-laden taxi behind the green sedan. The sight of the policemen was not reassuring; and neither was the sudden appearance of the money bags, darting stealthily toward them from the door of the sedan.

"Trapped!" Marc groaned. "What'll we do?"

Of course, the only answer was flight. Opening the car door, Toffee tugged at Marc's sleeve. "Come on," she urged.

"Where to?" Marc asked hopelessly. "We're jammed in here tight. Bumper to bumper and fender to fender, so to speak."

"Sounds lecherous," Toffee murmured. "Come on."

Marc was willing to be led, it appeared, even when he didn't know where he was being led to. He didn't object even when Toffee blithely opened the rear door of the next car, nodded cheerfully to its startled owner, and bounded through to the other side. In fact, he heartily endorsed the idea by rapidly following suit.

And Marc was not the only one to realize the wisdom in Toffee's methods. Soon, not only the pursued, but the pursuers as well, were romping in and out of strange vehicles with a reckless abandon that indicated a decided taste for the sport. The sound of wailing horns slowly died to be replaced by excited screams and dark curses. Toffee, easily the most fleet of foot, took a fast lead, Marc bringing up a close second. The skittering money bags, an early entry in this car-hopping sweepstakes, followed hot on the trail, flitting felicitously past the noses of astonished motorists like a pair of featureless rag dolls suddenly come to life. The two policemen, definitely dark horses without a prayer, brought up a couple of blue serge rears that lent a certain full-bodied homeliness to the affair. The reactions of the jammed-in motorists were varied and extreme.

One dapper little gentleman, the proprietor of a low black sedan, watched with bemusement as Toffee leaped lightly into his presence and made for the next car with business-like directness. But when Marc lunged after the lithesome redhead, the little fellow began to take an active interest in the proceedings, which, as he saw them, were becoming rather sordid. He held an arresting hand up to Marc.

"Why don't you let her go, mister?" he asked reprovingly. "You're running the poor kid nearly ragged. Maybe she just doesn't like you."

Marc brushed the hand impatiently aside and continued on his way.

The little man squared his shoulders manfully, slid across the seat and hopped quickly out the door.

"Maybe it isn't any of my business," he muttered, jumping to the running board of the next car, "but somebody's got to be there to protect that poor child when he catches her!"

The little man had no way of knowing that he was setting a dangerous precedent. Flinging one's self in and out of strange automobiles seemed to be just the sport that all America had been waiting for. Within only a few minutes after the beginning of the chase, the number of participants had increased by leaps, bounds and broad jumps. Clearly, there was an irresistible appeal about the thing that captured the imagination. With a why-didn't-I-ever-think-of-this gleam in their eyes people were soon leaping from car to car like a horde of salmon shooting the rapids at spawning time.

There was, however, a dreary minority in the traffic jam that found certain aspects of this frolicsome pastime highly objectionable. One of this number, particularly, was Mrs. Priscilla Carthwright, a matron of some standing who hadn't been known as "Prissy" during her girlhood for nothing. Mrs. Carthwright suffered an unconditional defeat, however, in her efforts to defend the sacred confines of her limousine from the ravages of the joyous herd. Crouched on ample knees on the seat of the car, she came dangerously close to falling into a swoon as the door burst open under her protesting, bejeweled hand, and a lank young man burst unconcernedly into her august presence with a broad wink and a primitive whoop that was strongly reminiscent of the cries of avenging Indians in the days of the early West. In the end, though, drawing on the waning reserves of her courage, Mrs. Carthwright managed to waylay one lean bespectacled reveler long enough to score her own little moral triumph.

"What does all this mean, young man?" she demanded imperiously. "Just where do all these people think they are going?"

The young man paused long enough to take the question under thoughtful consideration, obviously a matter that had heretofore not troubled him. "I think we're marching on Washington," he murmured finally, "to demand our rights."

"Just as I thought!" Mrs. Carthwright boomed triumphantly, dismissing her victim. "Communists!"

And having said, she settled back in the seat, cross-legged, her features fixed in a glassy stare that suggested haughty royalty in exile.

And there were other unfortunate incidents. Particularly bad was the one in which Toffee, completely innocent of purpose, threw the door open on a young couple locked in an amorous embrace. The lovers, looking up to find themselves observed by what appeared to be a surging sea of prying eyes, came close to sharing an hysterical fit. The young lady, in a seizure of confused madness, turned on her adored one and dealt him such a stinging blow in the mouth that several of his front teeth were completely dislodged. Clearly, it was the death blow to a beautiful, if careless, romance.

More gratifying was Toffee's foray into a bus load of energetic young basketball players. Though the delighted redhead was relayed from seat to seat and finally lifted out of a rear window with all dispatch, when she waved good-by to her instantly-won admirers, she was wearing a crimson sweat shirt with a golden N splashed across its front. Also, she had been unanimously elected the team's mascot in favor of an infant pig.

And so the racing procession continued, unabated, in limousine and out sedan, over jeep and under truck, for the better part of a quarter of an hour. And it might have continued longer had it not been for the enterprising spirit of a nearby restauranteer who rolled several kegs of beer onto the sidewalk thereby introducing into the occasion a further distraction. And since spontaneous entertainment is invariably the best, the wandering motorists were not long in realizing the inherent possibilities in this delightful turn of events. Other divertissments, including street dancing and a sidewalk performance by a theatrical troupe from a neighborhood burlesque, were quickly added to the program.

Never in the history of the city had the police been confronted by such an ungovernable, pleasure-bent traffic jam. After several futile attempts at laying down the fun-loving uprising, the Chief of Police and his aides finally accepted the inevitable, roped the area off from further traffic, and went in search of a cooling tumbler of beer. The Chief, sitting democratically on the curb, bending his elbow with refreshing regularity, was a little worried, however. He wasn't at all sure how the Mayor was going to look on this incident, and tomorrow there would be the tiresome business of restoring abandoned vehicles to their subdued owners. For his own part, he didn't feel there was any harm in the thing. Here was a group of jaded, work-weary city dwellers having their first delightful taste of real, communal fun in a long time. After his fifth mug of beer, though, the Chief's worries began to vanish. He decided he didn't really give a damn what the Mayor thought.

Toffee and Marc, however, were not among those participating in these impromptu sidewalk festivities. They had resigned their charter membership in the reveling brotherhood some time before the beer rolled onto the scene.

Stylishly garbed in a fur coat and the flaming red jersey, which came nearly to her knees, Toffee burst onto the sidewalk from the door of a glittering convertible, looking a little like a grand dame who had recently suffered some extremely devastating losses in a cloak room crap game. Her face a bit flushed from her recent triumphs, she turned and waited expectantly for Marc. Soon, her vigil was rewarded. Marc, hatless, tieless, his hair hanging loosely in his eyes, staggered through the convertible and moved breathlessly to her side. His eyes were immediately drawn to the garish sweat shirt.

"Where on earth did you pick that up?" he asked with distaste.

"A charming group of youngsters gave it to me," Toffee told him proudly. "Also, they favored me with several choice bruises." She ran a hand gently over her thigh. "Those kids sure know their way around."

Marc wasn't really interested in the precociousness of the younger generation. Not at a time like this. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. "Have you seen those ghoulish bags lately?"

Toffee shook her head. "I think we've given them the slip. The cops, too. The last time I saw those two flatheaded flatfoots they were slobbering all over each other like a couple of rejected brides. I really think they've lost their reason. One of them was mumbling something about hurling the Chief into the Mayor's face, whatever that means."

"Now what do we do?" Marc asked. "We're free, but we haven't a car any more."

Toffee crooked a slender finger. "Follow me," she said. "There is madness in this method. But it'll still work."

She led Marc around the block, back to the alley that had proved their one-way path to dilemma in the first place.

Marc hung back. "What's the idea?" he asked.

"The taxi," Toffee explained brightly. "The one the cops arrived in. It's the only transportation for miles that isn't all tied up. And it's just waiting for someone to come along and snag it."

Marc shrugged wearily and followed without protest as Toffee crossed to the driver's window and stuck her head inside.

"Is this car for hire?" she smiled.

The driver, an open-faced fellow of obvious good will, smiled back. "I'm supposed to be waitin' here for a couple of cops, lady," he said. "They said I wasn't to leave till they told me. They said...." Suddenly he broke off, his eyes focused on Toffee's fiery red jersey. "Say! Ain't that one of Neopolitain High's sweat shirts you got on there?" Admiration grew in his face as Toffee nodded. "I gotta kid over at that school, lady. I bet you have too." Toffee maintained a discreet silence on this point. "Maybe you seen my kid play basketball sometime."

Toffee looked at the driver closely. "Is he a tow-headed little devil with searching blue eyes?" she asked.

"Could be, lady. Sounds like him. He's a real nice kid."

Toffee's answering laugh was brief and bitter, but the driver didn't notice. He was busy opening the rear door.

"Hop in!" he said grandly. "Anything for good old Neopolitain High!"

Climbing into the cab, Toffee rubbed her thigh reflectively. "Yeah," she murmured. "Anything."

Marc and Toffee collaborated on a deep, heart-felt sigh of relief as the taxi backed out of the alley and onto the street. They didn't know, however, that the breath they were expending with such satisfaction was soon to be reclaimed in a horrified gasp. This curious phenomenon occurred only a moment later when the taxi slowed to a stop at the corner signal.

They didn't see the sacks approaching; the fearful things were just there at their feet all of a sudden, having arrived with a sickening plop. The car door on Toffee's side swung open, and there was suddenly another depression in the seat. The door closed again just as the taxi pulled out toward the intersection. Apparently the driver hadn't noticed.

"Thought I'd never catch up with you two," George's voice said breathlessly and pleasantly. "It was all a lot of fun, of course, but a bit fatiguing, don't you think?"

With a soul-searing groan Marc closed his eyes and sank deeper into the seat.

"Go strangle yourself," Toffee suggested waspishly.

But George's high spirits would not be quashed. "I really fixed things up, didn't I?" he asked proudly. The money bags leaped from the floor and deposited themselves in Marc's shrinking lap. "How's that, old man?"

Marc responded to this inquiry with a brief strangling noise. His face was turning crimson.

"What's the matter with him?" George asked. "Something disagree with him?"

"I think it's money poisoning," Toffee said dully.

"Well," George sighed, "now that I've set things right, I guess I might as well just relax and enjoy myself from now on. It's only four o'clock. That leaves me sixteen whole hours just to have fun. Until tomorrow noon. All's well that ends well, eh?"

Marc said a very singular and unprintable thing.

The driver turned and regarded Marc interestedly. "How come?" he asked. "You been blabbin' your head off and that's the first time you moved your lips. I been watchin' in the mirror. You a ventriloquist?"

"Yes," Toffee answered for Marc. "He throws his voice like crazy."

Apparently, the driver was not the sort to ask too many questions. He accepted the fact of Marc's voice tossing accomplishments on Toffee's say-so. And his attitude toward his customers instantly warmed. Confiding rather bashfully that he'd always thought of his own singing voice as something rather special, he burst into an unsolicited rendition of "Mexicali Rose" that had his helpless audience cringing in their seats. A truly ghastly moan issued from George's vicinity.

And it was a moan that Marc would certainly have echoed had he been able. He was wondering if a sort of plague of theatrical ambition had descended on all humanity. Thoughts of Julie and the imminent opening of "Love's Gone Winging" crept despairingly through his mind. He tried to console himself with the old bromide that things were always darkest before the dawn, but he couldn't help wondering where fate had stumbled onto this newer, darker shade of black and why the nights of misfortune had to be so interminably Alaskan.

Afterwards, it seemed to Marc that it was Toffee who suggested that they hide themselves in a movie theater. It seemed so, but Toffee stoutly denied it. But Marc's memory of that dark period was far too confused to be relied upon. Certainly, though, it was Toffee who invited the taxi driver along so that they might hide the money bags under the seat of the cab.

Once inside the theatre, it is doubtful that anyone, except Toffee, saw much of the film, and that young lady, having never attended a movie previously, was far too engrossed in the activities on the screen to notice anything else. To her, the gigantic reflections of racing vehicles and exploding firearms were a terribly personal matter. Mostly, she concerned herself with repeated attempts to gain the doubtful protection of Marc's lap.

The others of the party, though, were absorbed in other, more immediate problems ... most of which stemmed from the dogged efforts of a bewildered usher to seat terrorized patrons in George's seat, which indeed appeared quite vacant. On these occasions the mouthings of the screen were rudely interrupted by startled cries of surprise and subsequent accusations that usually involved Marc who was occupying the next seat. One spinsterish female, thus offended, summoned the usher and accused the cowering man of inflicting upon her unlovely person brutalities which included pinchings, proddings and other familiarities too terrible to mention. In a whisper, George vehemently denied these charges to Marc, but the die had already been cast, the usher had already threatened to call the manager if they didn't remove themselves from the premises at once.

Flushed from its retreat like a covey of reluctant quail, the party made its way silently back to the cab which was waiting in a nearby taxi stand. No one spoke to George of his misdemeanors, lest they stir in his perverse soul a rebelliousness and a will to even more awful achievements. Besides, it didn't seem that mere reprimand could possibly be enough. Apparently the taxi driver was used to being thrown out of theatres, for he seemed to find nothing untoward in this latest ejection. He seemed to take the affair of the offensive seat in his stride, too.

It was hunger that next drove the strange foursome from the semi-private confines of the taxi, and again it seemed to Marc, in retrospect, that Toffee was the one to set the project afoot.

His face a study in calamity, Marc followed his curious companions into an obscure diner with the lusterless resignation of a man who no longer gives a damn. Fully aware that the venture hadn't a Chinaman's chance for turning out well, he only hoped it would not fall into complete ruination before he at least had a chance to fortify himself with a cup of coffee.

The affair of the diner, however, all things considered, really turned out better than expected. Marc managed to choke down not just one cup of coffee, but two, before disaster came storming over the horizon. It is perfectly true, of course, that George greedily and invisibly downed a milk shake while a counter boy, three waitresses and a handful of customers looked on with goggle-eyed fascination. Even the incurious taxi driver found this phenomenon somewhat diverting. He was not entirely certain in his own mind that long distance guzzling was a standard accomplishment in the bona-fide ventriloquist's bag of tricks. In the end, he decided it probably was and looked on Marc with new respect. But there were others who gazed on the driver's new-found hero not so much with respect as disgust. Marc, for his part, pretended not to notice.

The main event, so to speak, patiently bided its time until Marc had downed the second cup of coffee. Then, on the stroke of the last drop, it commenced promptly and devastatingly. It will never be known exactly what George did to the waitress to make her so hostile, but the record definitely shows that the young woman, just passing George's stool bearing a platter of ham and eggs, suddenly jerked to a halt, turned beet red, wheeled and bestowed her messy burden squarely in Marc's face. This she followed up with a few observations on the type and dexterity of Marc's hands, which were uttered in round phrases, no cooler, in any noticeable degree, than the sizzling platter now resting on Marc's lap.

Here, the situation reached the point at which it might have taken a course for either the better or worse, pending Marc's apology to the truculent waitress. But just as Marc opened his mouth, Toffee, smitten with the injustice of it all, gave the rail switches a deft twist and sent the whole issue into a sharp decline. Lifting her water glass, in which several large cubes of ice were still afloat, she calmly and deftly reached out and poured the entire contents into the startled waitress's accommodating bodice.

It is to be supposed that a dining room brawl, at best, is bound to be an untidy business. The one that followed was hardly an exception. The employees of the diner, all accomplished hash slingers by profession, exerted every effort to prove their professional standing in a horribly literal way. What the good people lacked in cool headed aim, they made up for in sustained volume. The members of the Pillsworth party, not too ambitious, anyway, to be the victors in this war on foodstuffs, were quickly beaten into a disordered retreat. Running swiftly down the sidewalk toward the waiting taxi, their last glimpse of the enemy only caused them to redouble their efforts to be elsewhere. The counter boy and the waitresses, joined by a managerial reinforcement who had miraculously arrived on the scene in the midst of hostilities, were lined up on the sidewalk like a bespattered operatic chorus. In unison, and with gusto, they were calling for the law and horrible revenge. One of the waitresses, distinguished from the others by a spasmodic addition to quivering disturbances about the upper torso, was loudly describing the abysmal blackness of Toffee's future should she ever be permitted to arrange it.

After the skirmish in the diner, there followed a long ride in the country which might have been restful except for the persistent singing of the driver, whose favorite selection continued exasperatingly to be "Mexicali Rose." Through it all, Marc tried to assemble his thoughts, a task rather like trying to assemble a house of cards in a derailed streetcar. However, he did come to several definite conclusions. Out of the shambles that was now his life, there were two things that surely had to be salvaged. Those were his love for his wife and hers for him. Having those two ingredients with which to work he might be able to rebuild from the beginning again, providing, of course, that he did not become a permanent resident of the state penitentiary because of George's misbegotten helpfulness. Another conclusion concerned Julie's debut as a Broadway star and her certain failure as same. If Julie was to go down in humiliation, he would be there to help cushion the fall, no matter what the consequences might turn out to be.

Thus, Marc's conclusions determining their course, darkness found the taxi and its odd crew heading warily back toward the city and the Hamilton Theatre. They traveled quietly through side streets and alleys, displaying a noticeable reticence in the vicinity of bright lights and police cars. Besmirched both in character and person, the fugitives ordered their movements in concurrence with their recently lowered social status.

Marc's hope that he might be able to make his entrance into the theatre unaccompanied proved nothing more than an empty dream. The taxi driver, Toffee and the stealthy scuffling noise that was George pressed close behind him as he identified himself to the doorman backstage and went inside. Toffee had decided that the money should be carried inside the theatre for purposes of security and elected to smuggle it in under her coat. Unfortunately, with the bags stowed around her middle, the little redhead looked curiously like a very unconcerned young lady in a very delicate condition. It was an extremely unhappy arrangement.

Marc had forgotten the backstage policeman, a regular fixture in the theatre. And now that he did remember him there wasn't much that could be done about it. Standing just inside the door, the cop turned inquisitive eyes on the newcomers and started forward. As the law approached, however, the little company retreated in kind toward a shadowed area beyond several frames of scenery. They were about mid-way to this retreat when Toffee, in her haste, relaxed the hold on her coat and one of the money bags dropped to the floor with a sickening thud.

For a moment the little group stopped, transfixed in a horrified tableau, then in unison, they all became wildly animated in an attempt to retrieve the wayward pouch and return it to the place from whence it had come. By the time the policeman had drawn close enough to see what was going on, these activities were in full cry. The man of law stopped short with a startled gasp. Just why these demented people should be clutching so furiously at this woman's stomach was beyond him.

"Here, you!" he called out. "Stop that!"

The trio looked up with matching expressions of fright and guilt. All hands, except Toffee's, suddenly abandoned ship. Toffee, left to shift for herself, bent forward in a sort of agonized, doubled-up position.

The policeman drew closer for a second look, and, getting it, instantly clamped his eyes shut, his features crowding together in a look of pain. The glimpse he'd had of Toffee's mid-section had twisted his very soul. When he opened his eyes again he was careful that their gaze fell no lower than the girl's chin.

"I don't understand it, lady," he said. "What seems to be the trouble?"

Toffee flushed a deep red. "I ... I don't know, officer," she said demurely. "It just came over me all of a sudden. It's terribly embarrassing."