Fred and Erna Naybor didn’t have a television. They didn’t need one. They watched the neighbors. Fred always said the entertainment value was much greater, though the scheduling could have stood some improvement. Since he and his wife were retired, however, it was rare that they missed their favorite program. The increased decibel level was an infallible tip-off.
     Fred was reading the paper when it happened. It wasn’t a very interesting paper, but it gave him something to do while waiting for the show to start. It was getting late, and he was growing concerned this might be an off day like the past few had been. He considered taking a nap: it wasn’t as if there was any danger of missing anything, because Erna was on look-out. Erna had no use for newspapers. She disliked reading anything longer than a recipe. For their show, however, she had the patience of Ayer’s Rock.
     A faint screech of tires and a whiff of burning rubber reached Fred a micro-second before Erna’s call: “They’re back! Come quick! The show’s about to start!” Fred sighed. That meant he would have to get up. He didn’t want to, but he had to if he didn’t want to miss the show. It was only the show that prevented him from becoming a permanent couch potato. At least he knew it would be worth it.
     He looked around for a place to stow the paper, and finally gave it to Poopsie to eat. Poopsie dutifully tore it to shreds. Poopsie was Erna’s dog, a pure-bred Small Yappy, and Fred had long hoped, without much confidence, that given enough newsprint the little nuisance would eventually choke. No luck so far. At least the dog didn’t bite him the way it did Erna, but Fred found it small consolation to be bitten in a different way.
     “Hurry, Fred! He’s got that woman with him!”
     Of course he does, thought Fred irritatedly. When he didn’t, there wasn’t any show. At last he succeeded in extracting his shapeless posterior from the armchair, patently too small for it, and padded into the kitchen in stocking feet to join his wife.
     His eyebrows shot up. “This is a new one,” he exclaimed. “she’s driving!”
     “She’s been up and down the street twice now,” said Erna. “How she can manage it without taking out half the fences is beyond me. But there it is.”
     “Kit looks petrified.”
     “Doesn’t he, though? I think the expression quite becomes him. That hang-dog look he usually carries around reminds me too much of Poopsie. Do you think they’ll over-shoot the drive-way?”
     “Hmm... I think not quite.”
     “Wager?” Erna placed a coin of small denomination on the counter, which Fred saw with a penny of his own. They waited in eager anticipation.
     “I win,” said Erna, with a hint of satisfaction. Fred wasn’t too put out. They had been trading the same coins back and forth for some time now.
     “You know, I believe she’s taken out the Pettifoggers’ prize gardenia, my dear,” Fred intoned after the air had cleared somewhat.
     “Lord in Heaven! I think you’re right. Most artistically done, too. You know, I never did like that thing. God only knows how it ever managed to win a prize.”
     “It seems to me that the event occurred when it was a considerably younger plant, if memory serves correctly.”
     “Well, I don’t know. Maybe now Frieda Pettifogger will finally stop boasting about the god-forsaken thing. How I loathe hearing Frieda rant about that disgusting plant!”
     “Poopsie will miss it, though.”
     “True. It did take a lot of training to persuade him to do his business there, but old habits die hard.”
     Privately, Fred mourned the loss. The bush had been a point of contention between Poopsie and the Pettifoggers’ cat Menelaus for years now, and that cat was dynamite. Fred had looked forward to seeing it catch Poopsie some day and make mincemeat of the little fart. But Poopsie had been too sneaky. Now he might never see it happen.
     “Fred! Fred! Stop woolgathering! Look! Do you see? I believe Kit’s big black car has acquired a dent! And I do believe it’s a new one!”
     “Hmmph! Yes, quite becoming, I’m sure. Mrs. Pettifogger’s plant must have been made of sterner stuff than I took it for.”
     “They’re getting out.”
     “I can see that. You have a better view: are they arguing, yet?”
     “She’s doing it for the both of them, as usual. I think she said the S- word. Yes, I’m sure of it!”
     “That’s odd.”
     “What, darling?”
     “Now that you’ve called my attention to it, it appears that there is something the matter with her left hand.”
     “My word! No S! That hand always has an S on it! No wonder she’s upset! Whatever could have happened to it?”
     “I have no idea. We’ll probably never know. Care to make a small wager on how long it takes her to force a new one out of him, my dear?”
     “No, I don’t fancy I’ll take you up on that one. See? He’s already caving in.”
     “So he is.”
     The two were silent for a time while Kit entered his house to rummage for socks, and his lady friend busied herself in picking apart gardenia blossoms.
     “Does she have a name?” Fred asked, eventually.
     “Of course she does, dear. Don’t you recall? She introduced herself the time she came over to borrow the turpentine. Lizzy or Libby, or something like that.”
     “Lily,” said Fred, remembering. “Say, did she ever return it?”
     “I don’t think so. I think she drank it. And yes, that is the name. Lily! Such a delightful little waif! Just brimming fully of original and innovative ideas.”
     “You think so? And here I’ve been taking her for a simple madwoman.”
     “Madwoman? I should say not! A girl as creative as that could never be regarded as simple! Kit, on the other hand...”
     “Oh, is that what’s wrong with him? I thought it was some sort of fixation. He’s always been such a brooding, taciturn sort of fella, the sort you’d expect to fume for years on end about leaky faucets, or screw-eyes, and then one day go out and decide to become a serial killer. Or the kind nobody ever notices until the Martians invade, and then turns out to be Bruce Lee in disguise.”
     “I think he’s like the man in that book you liked; you know, the one who ran the bulls in Pamplona and got stabbed in the gonads and never got over it?”
     Fred pouted. “That’s not the way it went,” he said. “Though he did live in Pamplona once, I understand. I take it you’re viewing him as a sort of Hemingway stereotype? Brooding over a mysterious, romantic and painful past? That kind of thing?”
     “That’s it. Sort of the whiny he-man type.”
     Fred considered the proposition. “A possibility, I suppose,” he conceded. “But if I had to make him a literary character, it would be someone like Fenwald in that Sturgis Antelope novel, the guy they think is loopy because he goes around playing the flute all the time, until he beats up Basso in the final scene and runs off to Anaconda with the heroine.”
     “That Sturgis Antelope is a trashy writer,” Erna pronouced emphatically, “and a Communist to boot!”
     “How would you know? You’ve never read him.”
     “I know he dragged our town’s name through the mud. That’s enough to know.”
     “Just because he wrote about the tanneries--“
     “Hush! We were discussing Mister Bean, and what’s the matter with him.”
     “So we were. What was your take on it, my dear?”
     “I was going to say that he’s a lunatic with a clouded background, but I’m thinking better of it. Mostly, I think he’s just simple. Ot-nay oo-tay ight-bray, you know.”
     “Oh? How’d he manage to land a gal like Lily, then?”
     “I’ve just told you,” said Erna, primly.
     Just then a loud noise erupted from Kit’s residence. The two debated for a minute or two over the nature of the sound, and wagers were exchanged. They finally decided that Kit must have experienced an unfortunate encounter with his big black dog. When Erna conceded the point, the two coins changed hands again. The nature of the encounter was still up in the air. They still couldn’t decide whether or not Kit had tripped over the beast, trodden on its tail, or simply discovered it to have eaten his entire supply of socks.
     “Not the last,” Fred pronounced. “It lost its taste for them, remember?”
     “No, I don’t. Did it really? What happened?”
     “It choked on a sock. I imagine the hospital bills were enormous, especially after the surgeons realized it was a dog.”
     “Oh yes, you said they ran a piece on that in the Bellotas Courier-Bulletin, didn’t you, just like they did on that Six Aces thing? Did the dog live? I don’t remember if they said.”
     “Yes, of course it did. It’s still running around, isn’t it
     “Why, yes, so it is. What happened to the sock, by the way?”
     “Oh, they saved it, I think. Perhaps it’s the one Lily always liked to wear,” Fred speculated. “Memento, or something. She’s sentimental, that one.”
     “Well, I imagine the dog was glad to see the last of it! Wait -- are you sure? I thought the sock came before the dog.”
     “No, the dog was around then, unless it was a different dog.” Fred shrugged. “All big, black dogs look alike to me. Anyway, I gather it learned its lesson, and has been steering clear of socks since.”
     “Well, I’m glad Kit hasn’t done the same.”
     “Learned to steer clear of socks? I don’t believe he ever ate them.”
     “No, of Lily. It would be a pity if he did: it would cancel our show!”
     “I wouldn’t worry, dear. I’m sure the dog is much smarter than Kit.”
     Erna patted Fred’s hand. “Thank you for setting me right on the sock, dear. It’s tough getting old, and not being able to remember all the details one used to.”
     “Well, most of it was in the paper. If you ever read beyond the lead paragraph...”
     “Now, let’s not get into that again, Fred. You know how those articles confuse me. I always expect the opening paragraph to be followed by the list of ingredients.”
     “You sell yourself short,” said Fred, gallantly, “some of your most interesting culinary concoctions have emerged that way.”
     Erna refused to take it in that spirit. “You just won’t let me forget that Iran-Contra Pasta, will you?” she cried.
     Another silence followed. The two watched Lily complete the destruction of the offensive gardenia and move on to other diversions. First came a rather interesting effort to build a sand-castle from the contents of an old bag of kitty-litter the Pettifoggers had left out for the garbage man. Menelaus came out from the their residence during this operation, stiff-backed and suspicious. Fred and Erna turned to each other with mutual delight in their eyes. This mean fireworks for sure!
     Outside, Lily spoke with the cat, and its back went down. It condescended to sniff her hand, submitted with amazing grace to a pat on the head, rubbed up against her knee, and sat down to observe the operation. The watchers were astounded.
     “She’s a witch!” cried Erna.
     “He must be sick!” Fred exclaimed.
     Whichever it was, the murderous, ill-tempered tabby the whole neighborhood knew and loathed was behaving in a distinctly odd fashion.
     “I suppose he’ll want his ears scratched next,” said Erna. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the cat stretched out its neck towards Lily, who responded by absently rubbing the back of its skull. Erna’s jaw dropped. Automatically, she extended her hand. Fred silently put his coin in it. They continued to stare at the impossible scene, completely absorbed.
     Shortly, Menelaus lost interest, jumped over the castle, and walked regally past Kit’s house toward the Jiminezes’, commencing a sort of royal progress of the neighborhood. Lily surveyed her project critically, pouted, and casually kicked it down. Afterwards she amused herself by plucking the crusted mud from the tread of Kit’s tires.
     “Is she bored, do you think?” asked Erna.
     “Very likely,” Fred replied. “That’s a very lackadaisical-looking cleaning, if you ask me.”
     Eventually the two say Kit re-emerge from his residence bearing a large laundry hamper full of socks, none of which appeared to have been washed for some time. When he dropped the hamper down beside Lily, another row ensued.
     “What’s happening?” asked Fred, anxiously, afraid of having missed something. “Did he drop it on her hand?”
     “No, I think it’s something else. She doesn’t seem interested in the hamper. My thought is he just forgot the carrot juice again. That girl does enjoy a spot of carrot juice after a drive.”
     “Huh! I would think she could just suck some out of her cummerbund, if she’s that addicted. It’s certainly absorbed enough of it in her career.”
     “Heavens! What an idea! Sometimes I don’t know where you men come up with your notions! That would be completely unhygienic!”
     “Which is quite in character, don’t you think? You saw what she was doing with the cat sand.”
     “Hmm. Shut up and watch the show.”
     Kit had gone back into the house, and come out with a two-liter jug of carrot juice.
     “Hah!” Erna cackled. “Pay me!”
     Fred gave her the other coin.
     Kit put down the jug, and Lily, smiling, set him to work sorting the socks. While he was thus distracted, she stealthily extracted a small water- pistol from her cummerbund and filled it from the jug. Fred and Erna grinned at each other, and this time they were not disappointed. The ensuing two minutes proved quite interesting, and Fred and Erna became so enthralled that they quite forgot to comment on the action. Calling Kit’s name, Lily got him to look up from the laundry hamper, and squirted him full in the face. Then she turned and ran, evidently expecting him to give chase. Kit, however, apparently anticipating the same from her, was fleeing in the opposite direction. Erna clapped her hands.
     When Lily realized Kit wasn’t in pursuit, she grew quite livid, and took off after him. But Kit had too much of a head-start for her to catch up easily. He led her around the house three times, and somehow the big, black dog got into it, and it became difficult for a while to say just who was chasing whom. Then Lily got canny. As Kit and the dog disappeared around the corner of the house, she stopped, ran back to the other corner, and waited. Shortly the big, black dog rounded the corner. Lily met it in a shooting stance, with water pistol at full extension, and shouted something. It might have been “Freeze!”
     Surprised, the dog did stop. Lily appeared disconcerted too, for a moment: it seemed she had expected Kit. Then she let the beast have it. The big, black dog turned tail and retreated back in the direction from which it had come, only to collide with Kit as he, in turn, rounded the corner of the house. With a whoop, Lily scurried over with her weapon, and the situation quickly became quite complicated.
     Lily got in squirt after squirt at Kit’s defenseless face, giggling insanely all the while. But then she came in too close in order to make sure of her aim, and Kit’s hand shot out, taking the pistol away from her. The tables were turned. For a moment Lily was frozen, her mouth wide in dismay; then Kit got one right down her throat. Sputtering, Lily sprang to her feet and fled. Kit pursued her closely, and they circled the house again, this time in the opposite direction. Fred and Erna clapped.
     Lily tried to flatten herself against the side of the house as she came around to the front again to let Kit run past her, but he was too close on her heels for this to work. He squirted her again. Laughing, Lily ducked behind her arms and made motions of surrender. But the moment Kit ceased his attack, she made a break for it. As she passed the jug she swept it up, and rounded on Kit with a wide grin. Kit stopped and back-pedaled as she sloshed some of the juice at him. Taking advantage of the respite, Lily ran to the car with the jug, jumped in, and slammed the door behind her. As Kit came after her, she locked all the doors. She flashed a victorious smile at him, which quickly turned orange as he squirted her through the open window.
     Spitting out carrot juice, Lily flailed at Kit, managing to knock the water gun out of his hand. As Kit went after it, she rolled up the window. She laughed at him again when he returned. Frustrated, Kit squirted the glass, then went around the car, shooting at each window in turn. But Lily had learned her lesson, and been before him: all the windows were sealed tight. Eventually, Kit stopped and started shouting something at Lily. Meanwhile, she was doing something inside the vehicle, the nature of which was obscured by the curtains of carrot juice streaking the outside.
     “What’s she doing?” asked Erna, puzzled.
     “I have no idea,” her husband replied.
     Suddenly Kit began backing up rapidly: a moment later the car door opened and the jug sailed out assisted on its way by a quick flick of Lily’s foot. It shattered on the pavement, empty. Then Lily emerged, bearing something large and rifle-shaped. It was a super-soaker.
     Lily charged, and Kit ran. Fred and Erna gasped in delight. The big, black dog hid on the far side of the car.
     Kit wasn’t quick enough to escape this time, and Lily soaked him on the fly. He tried to put up a fight, but was thoroughly outgunned, and soon out of ammunition, to boot. He attempted to hide behind the remains of the gardenia: Lily sprayed it and Kit both. He ran around the car and hid behind the big, black dog, which growled at him, not appreciating having attention drawn to it. Lily made no distinction, but soaked both indescriminately, giggling all the while. Finally, Kit made a stand in the middle of the front yard, wrestling with Lily for possession of the weapon as the dog barked at them from a few feet away. Both antagonists got completely drenched. Fred and Erna were enormously entertained.
     It was at this point that Menelaus, returning from its circuit of the neighborhood, happened on the scene. Fred, engrossed in the doings of Kit and Lily, failed to notice at first, but Erna did, gasped, plucked at his shoulder wordlessly, and pointed. Fred let out a long whistle.
     For a while, the cat too was a mere observer. It did nothing but sit down on the curb and watch the struggle. Then it rose, stretched, and paced toward the participants. Just what Menelaus intended to do is pointless to speculate on, because at that moment Kit and Lily’s exertions broke the super- soaker in two, showering everyone in range with orange liquid, including the cat. There was a piercing yowl from Menelaus, that even Fred and Erna could hear. The action froze, and all eyes were riveted to the cat.
     Then Kit made a crucial error, raising his hand, which somehow still had hold of the useless water pistol. Menelaus took the gesture as a threat, and made for him. The big, black dog, showing more pluck than intelligence, barked and dashed to intercept. For several moments the fur flew, then the dog beat a hasty retreat, the cat close on its heels. The chase went as far as the big walnut tree by Kit’s driveway, yet the dog didn’t stop there, but went right up the tree. It kept going until it was firmly ensconced in the upper branches.
     “That’s amazing!” Fred cried. “I’ve never seen a dog climb a tree before!”
     Menelaus did not pursue beyond the base of the tree, but sat on the ground beneath looking up, its tail twitching slightly. After a moment it apparently decided the prize wasn’t worth the effort, and turned away.
     Kit was stupefied at the sight, and Lily, rolling on the ground in merriment. When she recovered herself, however, she was in a less benign mood. Gazing at the fragments of her water cannon, her face clouded. She spoke harshly to Kit, who responded in kind. The conversation grew more and more heated. When Menelaus returned, Lily pointed to Kit and said something to the cat that, judging from the sequel, was probably “sic him!” The upshot of the whole thing was, Kit ended up cowering in the walnut tree, too.
     Lily hugged Menelaus, which accepted the action as its due and marched back towards the Pettifoggers’ head and tail held high. Afterwards, Lily recovered the water pistol and brandished it in triumph. Then she gleefully confiscated the hamper of socks, threw it into the back seat of the big, black car, leaped into the driver’s seat, and drove away, victorious.
     “How does she do that?” asked Erna. “She’s never shown any evidence of being able to drive before: she couldn’t have picked it up that quickly. I’ve been trying to learn for forty-five years and still can’t do it!”
     “Well, she doesn’t seem to be doing that remarkable a job either,” observed Fred, noting how the vehicle wove back and forth across the street, sideswiping various front fences and gates. Lily also managed to get the car turned around several times before she seemed to settle on a general direction to point it in -- which is to say, instead of striking out every which way, she appeared to concentrate her attention on a single hemisphere.
     Kit prudently remained in the tree until the car was out of sight, and, on reflection, a few minutes longer. Fred and Erna waited patiently, knowing intuitively that Kit’s eventual efforts to descend from the tree would be amusing, as indeed they were. After several false starts, he appeared to fix on the solution of falling, which he succeeded in doing after three tries. Lower branches broke the first two attempts. Then he spent a long while looking up at the tree and scratching his head. Fred guessed that he was trying to decide how to get the dog down. Its climbing ability, spurred so remarkably by the prospect of Lily with a deadly weapon, had deserted it on her departure.
     “He appears to have arrived at some sort of decision,” said Erna.
     “He does appear somewhat more resolved,” Fred agreed.
     “Oh look, Fred! He’s coming over here!”
     “I believe you are correct, my dear. Shall I get the door?”
     “Let’s both.”
     They got to it and flung it open just before Kit rang the bell, which caused him to look and feel foolish. Such, indeed, could well have been their unspoken intent.
     “Uh, hello,” said Kit. His neighbors looked at him. They seemed to expect him to go on, so he did. “Ladder,” he ventured, after pondering a bit. “I believe I need a ladder.”
     “I just might happen to have such a thing, lad,” drawled Fred. “What might you be wanting it for?”
     Kit gestured helplessly in the direction of the walnut. “Dog,” he suggested. When that elicited no further comment, he added: “Up. There.”
     “Mm, so I see,” said Fred. He wondered at Kit’s diction. The lad sounded different today; short a few more brain-cells than usual, perhaps. But it didn’t seem quite polite to bring it up. He contented himself with a comment on the situation at hand. “Climbing is a remarkable talent in a dog, sir, if I do say so myself.”
     “Yes,” said Kit, making a distinct effort to articulate his thoughts. “He does amazing things under pressure. But he isn’t any more. So he can’t do whatever it was he did when he was that got him where he is. To get from where he is to where he should be, I mean. You know.”
     “Very concisely stated. Yes, I think I see your problem.”
     “You might try shaking the tree,” Erna interjected.
     Kit looked over at the walnut for a few moments, then shook his head dubiously. “Don’t think it would work,” he said. “It’s a sturdy tree. It would have to be, with all the times I’ve nicked it getting in the drive. Not to mention the climbing.”
     “I’ve never seen you climb that tree before,” said Fred.
     “Once was plenty. Anyway, it held up me and him both, besides all those leaves, so it can’t be too shakable. If it were, Lily would have tried it.”
     “Good point,” said Fred. “I’ll get the ladder.”
     That, of course, was the easy part. Once the ladder had been positioned, Fred stood back and directed while Kit made the rescue attempt. Erna came out with lawn chairs and cool drinks, for which her husband was properly grateful, and the two settled back to watch the proceedings in comfort. Even Poopsie came out to watch, and possibly score a few points on the big, black dog, with whom it didn’t get along remarkably well. Fred hoped that the big, black dog might finally be provoked into settling the dispute, preferably by biting Poopsie in two. But the perverse creature merely stayed in its tree and whined while Poopsie yapped around the trunk.
     The stranded canine did not seem to appreciate Kit’s rescue efforts. As the man neared, it snapped and retreated higher into the tree. At last, Kit gave up. Bathed in sweat, he approached Fred again. “Fire Department,” he stated, emphatically.
     “Righto, lad. Come on in: I’ll call them, and Erna will get you some iced tea and something for those bites.”
     “Thanks,” said Kit.
     “Think nothing of it.”

     As Kit rested and recuperated in the Naybors’ living room, the couple elicited a few more details from him on the latest tiff with Lily.
     “Where did she go?” Erna wanted to know.
     “The Sierras, I think; a little town called Particular, in the foothills. We just came from there. She’s probably going to pitch the socks over a cliff. Artistically, of course.”
     “Of course,” agreed Fred. “Why that, in particular?”
     “No, a little outside of Particular, actually. Because that’s what she did with the rest of them, I guess. She really seemed to enjoy it.”
     “The rest of them?”
     “The rest of the half-pairs. None of the socks I have left match. She separated them in order to take half of them on our trip: she’s good at separating socks. Now I suppose she wants to reunite them.”
     “She certainly appears to be good at separating your socks from you,” Erna put in.
     “Yes. She’s quite talented.”
     “You know, neighbor, I often wonder if that girl is entirely good for you,” said Fred. He was reluctant to spike the local entertainment, but he felt it had to be said, and if he didn’t say it, nobody would. That being the situation, it was his duty.
     He needn’t have worried. “Oh, I’m sure she is,” said Kit, looking over both shoulders nervously as he did so, “She’s told me so herself. In confidence, I sometimes have doubts, but she always puts me straight.”
     “Women do that,” Erna nodded sagely. “It’s what the good Lord put us here for.” At the same time she favored her husband with a dark look, as if to say “Don’t you dare try to cancel my show!”
     Fred shrugged. Doing one’s duty is always a thankless task. “I think the fire truck is here,” he said, looking out the window.
     The three returned to the street just as the shiny red truck pulled up to the curb by Kit’s house. Kit seemed glad to see it arrive, but a bit startled when a second pulled up in its wake, and completely disconcerted when he saw a third round the corner. Fred was surprised himself.
     Six big men in yellow slickers tumbled out of, or down from, the first truck. They looked about in bewilderment, until Kit waved to them: then one detached himself from the group and marched across the street purposefully.
     “Okay,” he said, “where’s the fire?”
     Fred hid a grin. He’d never dreamed firemen really talked like that.
     “Where’s what fire?” asked Kit.
     “The one we were called here on!” the fireman barked, impatiently. “The caller said a big back lot had gone up!”
     Fred’s jaw dropped. That had definitely not been what he had said.
     “All we have here is a big, black dog up a walnut,” said Kit.
     “Oh no,” groaned Fred. He smote his forehead with the heel of his hand. He was beginning to get a glimmer of what had happened.
     “What’s your problem, fella?” asked the fireman, regarding Fred suspiciously.
     “I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up,” he said. “I called in the problem, and I said exactly what Mr. Bean just did. Whoever took the call must have heard `black dog’ as `back lot’.
     “Oh?” the fireman purred. “And no doubt he heard `walnut’ as `gone up’, too! You know what the penalty is for false alarms, mister?”
     Kit intervened. “But it’s not a false alarm,” he protested. There really is a dog up in my walnut tree.”
     The fireman gave him a look full of withering contempt. “Oh, please,” he said. “That’s the dumbest story I’ve ever heard, and let me tell you, I’ve heard a lot of them.”
     At this point the dog in the tree let out a mournful howl. Everyone’s heads swiveled towards Kit’s house.
     “Son of a bitch,” the fireman breathed. “How the hell did that happen?”

     The misunderstanding sorted out, two of the trucks were dismissed, and the crew of the first one got to work. The operation took most of the remainder of the afternoon.
     “Thank God that’s over,” said Kit, after it was. “And thank you for all your help.”
     “Don’t mention it,” said Fred and Erna, together. It was their favorite phrase. Superstitiously, Fred had the feeling that if they ever stopped saying it, Kit would stop mentioning things. He was a good lad, but he did need his little reminders. “Run along home now,” Erna added. Sated, she was anxious to return to her own home, and the telephone, to fill in her gaggle of friends on the latest developments in everyone’s favorite soap opera, “Kit and Lily”.
     Just then, a faint screech of tires reached their ears, as if from a vast distance. “You know,” suggested Erna, “it does sound like she might be coming back!” She was rewarded by seeing an expression of stark panic take over Kit’s face. “It can’t be!” he cried, “I haven’t any offerings! I’m not ready!”
     But it did seem to be coming nearer, an impression soon confirmed by a faint stench of burning rubber. Kit’s features were suffused with absolute horror. He looked every which way, as if trying to intimate what direction his nemesis was coming from. He gazed longingly at his house, as if at a refuge too far distant to be of any avail. Finally, he clutched at his ever- so-helpful neighbors.
     “Quick!” he begged. “There’s little time! For the love of Heaven, loan me some socks!!”
     Fred and Erna exchanged furtive smiles. This was turning out to be a grand day after all. A double-length episode, perhaps! It might even make the Courier-Bulletin again!