toward the twilight shore metal fingers tapped Tad’s shoulder.
He turned away from the rail, expecting to encounter Electro. “Oh, hello, Washboard.”
The one man band said, “Come backstage with me for a twitty twit minute, can you?”
“Sure, what’s the problem?”
“It’s the twitty twit commodore.” Washboard gave himself a smack across the back of the neck. “My flute attachment is fritzed up.” He administered two more smacks. “There that should twit take . . . well, it’s a little better.” He led Tad along the deck and around behind the stage.
Commodore Snow, a large chubby catman in a two-piece blue captain suit, was roaming fretfully across a strip of deck. In his right paw he clutched a raw turnip, which he was gnawing at. “I shouldn’t let you hoodoo me, Will,” he said. “The material is surefire.”
“Not funny,” said Washboard Will.
“It got big laughs in Fetid Landing, Seepage and Raw Sewage,” the commodore said. “Those are all, as I shouldn’t have to remind you, very savvy audience towns. If they laugh at you in Fetid Landing, Seepage and Raw Sewage, they’ll fall off their seats in Siltville. That’s an old theatrical adage, by the way.”
Washboard shook his head, his whistles clacking together. “Didn’t I win the Siltville Drama Critics Circle Award two years in a—”
“What can they know about drama? Giving a gaudy loving cup to a man wth a clarinet built into his—”
“They know what’s funny. They know that much. They aren’t going to laugh, or even snicker, over this opening monologue of yours, commodore.”
Snow beckoned Tad to come closer. “You’re a bright lad, I can see that, although this is the first time I’ve seen you conscious,” he said. “You have a sense of humor, don’t you?”
“Nearly everybody does.”
“Exactly.” With both paws he moved a folding chair over to Tad. “Sit down, relax, behave perfectly naturally. I’ll run through my monologue, you give us your unbiased opinion.”
Sitting, Tad glanced from the ship’s captain to the one man band. “You want me to pretend I’m the audience?”
“The Siltville audience,” amended Washboard. “The very discriminating Siltville audience, which will include at tonight’s performance at least seven of the nine members of the Siltville Dram—”
“Enough for the warmup,” said Snow. “Let me get to the monologue.”
Washboard made a slight bow. “Proceed,” he said. “Tad, you laugh whenever it’s funny.”
“It’s difficult, you know, to respond naturally when people are scrutinizing you.”
“Make the best try you can.” Commodore Snow cleared his throat, rubbed his paws together. “Do you think I need a nose, Will?”
“Skip the nose,” advised the one man band. “The nose isn’t going to help in Siltville.”
“I wear, let me explain, young man, a very whimsical red bulb nose when I deliver the opening monologue.”
“Does that notion strike you as funny?” Washboard inquired of Tad.
“I’d have to see it before I pass judgment.”
“It won’t take a minute for me to fetch it from my cabin.”
“We’re tying up at the Siltville dock,” Washboard pointed out. “Do the monologue, so we can get to work revising it.”
The commodore’s cheek whiskers stood up; he made a growling sound. Finally he said, “This is a monologue about stookers, young man.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Stookers . . . wangstix, diddlers.”
“I don’t think any of those words—”
“See commodore, he doesn’t get it already and you’ve barely commenced.”
“I mean pritzes, jabbers, diddywingers,” continued Snow, his paws drawing vague pictures in the air. “What the blue blazes do they call a penis where you come from?”
“Oh, I see what you’re getting at,” said Tad. “Well, on Barnum the most used slang word would be—”
“Barnum?” Snow glared at Washboard Will. “This mooncalf is off planet. What kind of ringer are you
He turned away from the rail, expecting to encounter Electro. “Oh, hello, Washboard.”
The one man band said, “Come backstage with me for a twitty twit minute, can you?”
“Sure, what’s the problem?”
“It’s the twitty twit commodore.” Washboard gave himself a smack across the back of the neck. “My flute attachment is fritzed up.” He administered two more smacks. “There that should twit take . . . well, it’s a little better.” He led Tad along the deck and around behind the stage.
Commodore Snow, a large chubby catman in a two-piece blue captain suit, was roaming fretfully across a strip of deck. In his right paw he clutched a raw turnip, which he was gnawing at. “I shouldn’t let you hoodoo me, Will,” he said. “The material is surefire.”
“Not funny,” said Washboard Will.
“It got big laughs in Fetid Landing, Seepage and Raw Sewage,” the commodore said. “Those are all, as I shouldn’t have to remind you, very savvy audience towns. If they laugh at you in Fetid Landing, Seepage and Raw Sewage, they’ll fall off their seats in Siltville. That’s an old theatrical adage, by the way.”
Washboard shook his head, his whistles clacking together. “Didn’t I win the Siltville Drama Critics Circle Award two years in a—”
“What can they know about drama? Giving a gaudy loving cup to a man wth a clarinet built into his—”
“They know what’s funny. They know that much. They aren’t going to laugh, or even snicker, over this opening monologue of yours, commodore.”
Snow beckoned Tad to come closer. “You’re a bright lad, I can see that, although this is the first time I’ve seen you conscious,” he said. “You have a sense of humor, don’t you?”
“Nearly everybody does.”
“Exactly.” With both paws he moved a folding chair over to Tad. “Sit down, relax, behave perfectly naturally. I’ll run through my monologue, you give us your unbiased opinion.”
Sitting, Tad glanced from the ship’s captain to the one man band. “You want me to pretend I’m the audience?”
“The Siltville audience,” amended Washboard. “The very discriminating Siltville audience, which will include at tonight’s performance at least seven of the nine members of the Siltville Dram—”
“Enough for the warmup,” said Snow. “Let me get to the monologue.”
Washboard made a slight bow. “Proceed,” he said. “Tad, you laugh whenever it’s funny.”
“It’s difficult, you know, to respond naturally when people are scrutinizing you.”
“Make the best try you can.” Commodore Snow cleared his throat, rubbed his paws together. “Do you think I need a nose, Will?”
“Skip the nose,” advised the one man band. “The nose isn’t going to help in Siltville.”
“I wear, let me explain, young man, a very whimsical red bulb nose when I deliver the opening monologue.”
“Does that notion strike you as funny?” Washboard inquired of Tad.
“I’d have to see it before I pass judgment.”
“It won’t take a minute for me to fetch it from my cabin.”
“We’re tying up at the Siltville dock,” Washboard pointed out. “Do the monologue, so we can get to work revising it.”
The commodore’s cheek whiskers stood up; he made a growling sound. Finally he said, “This is a monologue about stookers, young man.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Stookers . . . wangstix, diddlers.”
“I don’t think any of those words—”
“See commodore, he doesn’t get it already and you’ve barely commenced.”
“I mean pritzes, jabbers, diddywingers,” continued Snow, his paws drawing vague pictures in the air. “What the blue blazes do they call a penis where you come from?”
“Oh, I see what you’re getting at,” said Tad. “Well, on Barnum the most used slang word would be—”
“Barnum?” Snow glared at Washboard Will. “This mooncalf is off planet. What kind of ringer are you
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