Applying himself to the task, he faced the formidable challenge of transforming bleak facts into breathtaking radio announcements, starting with Sunday, November 9, 1913.
It was an emotional experience, and he welcomed a respite; he phoned Polly at the library.
“Qwill! I’m glad you called! I’ve just talked to Benson’s office in Chicago. His secretary said he got into Chicago very late last night and had an early meeting this morning, but she said he was none the worse for the forced landing. He told his secretary it was—guess what!—an
“Working on my script. I finished segment one, after which the stage lights black out and the audience hears a minute of music. What do you think it should be?”
“We used it for fire music in ‘The Big Burning,’ ” he objected.
“No one will remember, dear.”
“I guess you’re right.”
What Qwilleran needed now was a writing challenge of a different sort, and he applied himself to
He fortified himself with a cup of coffee and wrote the following:
THE MATTER OF THE SILVER THIMBLE
It’s like this: There are thousands of house cats, barn cats, and cat fanciers in Moose County, and readers of my “Qwill Pen” column enjoy hearing about the antics of the Siamese occasionally. They are awed by the handsome, intelligent Koko, but they love the sweet little Yum Yum, with her dainty demeanor and iron will. In fact, there is a Yum Yum fan club in the county.
Members of this unofficial organization send her crocheted mice that squeak and plastic balls that rattle. Her most precious possession, though, is a silver thimble, a gift from a dear reader no longer able to sew. “Cats,” she said, “love thimbles.”
Yum Yum has always liked anything small and shiny, but she is absolutely infatuated with her thimble.
She bats it around with her delicate paw, carries it from one venue to another in her tiny teeth, hides it, forgets where it’s hidden, then cries until I look under rugs, behind seat cushions, and in wastebaskets to retrieve it.
She has deposited it in the pockets of my jackets, in a bowl of mixed nuts, and down the drain of the kitchen sink.
I should take it away from her, but I haven’t the heart. She would pine away and die.
I have appealed to readers of the newspaper. All solutions to the problem will be thoughtfully considered. Address me in care of the psychiatric ward at the Pickax General Hospital.
SEVEN
The third week in June would be a busy one for Qwilleran, and he felt the need to make a list:
Write “Qwill Pen” for Tuesday. (How about the Toothache Club?)
Write column for Friday. (The Whoozis epidemic.)
Write segment two of script in time for Sunday afternoon rehearsal.
Order daffodils.
Reserve table for Friday night.
Call Bushy about Brrr souvenir book and “nice young lady” working for him.
Not on the list but implicit in Qwilleran’s life was the “quality time” he spent with the Siamese twice a week.
No matter how busy Qwilleran might be, nothing was allowed to interfere with the “quality time.” He told himself, They’re all the family I’ve got! True, they provided him with companionship, entertainment, and occasional frustration. To Thornton Haggis he had once said, “Anyone who lives alone needs to take responsibility for a fellow creature or risk being blown away.”
And Thornton replied, “Your only danger, as I see it, is disappearing in a cloud of hyperbole!”
On this particular morning, the Siamese were treated to a serving of choice red salmon—two servings, his and hers. There followed an interval for catly ablutions, a ritual that only they could understand. Next, they were groomed with their favorite brush—a silver-backed antique that had belonged to the late Iris Cobb.
Then the two males watched patiently while Yum Yum batted her thimble around, hid the thing, forgot where it was, found it, and finally stored it in some secret grotto.
After that, both cats engaged in an athletic romp with a necktie. It always left them exhausted. They flopped over on their sides and lay motionless, except for the tapping of a tail on the floor. This was Qwilleran’s cue to nudge a soft underside gently with the toe of a shoe.
Instantly the prostrate cat came to life and attacked Qwilleran’s shoe with both forelegs, kicking furiously with hind feet. It was a game they played.
