After Saugatuck we are not booked, because Charlie says
something may fall down in New York and he may want to yank us
right in. And, say, if Signor Petroskinski, the Illusionist and
Worker of Mystical Magic, ever gets a crack at a Broadway audience
it'll be a case of us matching John D. Rockefeller to see who has
the most money."
"No, we better not bring Skinski into New York," Bunch advised.
"I'm afraid of the critics."
"What critics?" I inquired. "There are only four people in New
York city who can write criticisms--the rest of the bunch are
slush-dealers, and a knock from any one of them is a boost."
"I mean Mr. Stale," Bunch put in. "If he were to roast our Skinski
it might hurt our business."
"It would--among the Swedes and Hungarians," I cross-countered.
"I'm wise to Mr. Stale, _nee_ Cohenheimer, the Human Harpoon! Say,
Bunch! he's a joke. I caught him the day he first left the
blacksmith shop, some ten years ago, with a boathook in each hand
and a toasting fork between his teeth. That duck isn't a critic,
he's only a Foofoo."
"What the devil is a Foofoo?" Bunch asked.
"A Foofoo is something that tried to happen and then lost the
address," I explained. "Did you ever pipe Stale's cheery bits of
humor as exemplified in one of his burning criticisms? Well, I'll
put you wise, Bunch:
"I went to the Kookoo theatre last night, I and myself.
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