William Johnston - Missed It By That Much!

“I guess you’re right,” 99 said. “But it seems like such a shame. We’re so close. Waiting is such a waste of time.”

“No, I don’t think it will be,” Max said. “We can use the time to deal with our other problem. Don’t forget, 99, Whitestone, the KAOS agent, is still on the loose. In fact, he’s probably hot on our trail. And before we can be successful at this mission, I think it will be necessary to put our adversary out of the game.”

“You’re probably right, Max.”

“Of course I’m right. Suppose we were closing in on Dr. Livingstrom and suddenly, out of nowhere, a parade appeared. You know I can’t resist a parade, 99. The blare of the horns! The beat of the drums! I’d have to stop. And, while I stood there cheering, Whitestone might make off with Dr. Livingstrom.”

“But, Max, you’d know it was an illusion. We’re out in the middle of the jungle. And this isn’t a holiday. There’d be no excuse for a parade.”

“99, people who march in parades don’t need an excuse.”

“I see what you mean, Max. You’re right, we better deal with Whitestone. But how? We haven’t even seen him yet.”

“We know that he’s following us, though,” Max pointed out. “So. . we’ll set a trap for him.”

“He won’t be easy to snare, Max.”

“It may not be all that difficult,” Max said. “What’s the first rule when setting a trap for an intelligent animal like man?”

“Always punt on the fourth down?”

“No, 99. The rule is: Know your victim. And what is it that we know about Whitestone? We know that he’s an ex-vaudevillian. What does that suggest?”

“Offering him a booking on the Ed Sullivan show?”

“You’re on the right track-but you’re in the wrong jungle. What do you think would happen if we set up a spotlight here in this clearing? I’ll tell you what would happen. Whitestone would see it and he’d be unable to resist it. Ex-vaudevillians are the same about spotlights as I am about parades. He’d march into the spotlight and go into his act. And we’d have him!”

“I don’t know, Max. .”

“Trust me, 99. I put in a little time on the stage myself, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that, Max. When?”

“In the third grade at Daniel Webster Elementary School. I was the hit of the class hi jinks. Offers poured in from all over the country. Offers from Hollywood. From Broadway. From off-Broadway.”

“Why didn’t you go, Max?”

“My mother wouldn’t let me. She thought it might be embarrassing. You see, I hadn’t quite licked toilet training yet.”

“Too bad, Max.”

“Yes, but that’s past history, 99. Let’s think about the present. Now, here’s my plan: We’ll dig a pit here in the center of the clearing, then we’ll cover it with branches and twigs. Above the pit, we’ll set up a spotlight, beamed directly at it. Whitestone will be lured into the spotlight, then drop into the pit. We’ll take him prisoner, then pick up Dr. Livingstrom’s trail again-free of the danger of being detoured by Whitestone.”

“It sounds perfect, Max! But how will we dig a pit? We don’t have a shovel.”

“Let’s check these capsules,” Max said, putting a hand into his pocket. “R amp; D probably sent along something that we can use in place of a shovel.” He handed 99 a fistful of capsules. “You check these, and I’ll check the others.”

“I have an exact-size replica of the Washington Monument here,” 99 said, reading a label.

“I suppose we could dig with that-it’s pointed at one end,” Max said. “But it might be a little hard to handle.”

“I also have the city of New York,” 99 said, reading the label on another capsule.

Max peered at her. “Really? It’s odd nobody’s missed it.”

“Well, it’s winter back in New York, Max. Everybody’s probably in Florida.”

“That explains it,” Max said. He read the label on one of the capsules he was holding. “ ‘One Shovel and One Spotlight for Trapping Ex-vaudevillians in the Jungle,’ ” he announced. “Good old R amp; D!”

Max and 99 set to work. 99 dug the pit. And Max mounted the spotlight in a tree above it. After they had covered the pit with vines and twigs, they hid in the underbrush. About an hour later, the sun went down. Max switched on the spotlight.

“It is tempting,” 99 said, impressed. “I almost feel like going out there and doing a little dance myself. I don’t see how an ex-vaudevillian like Whitestone could ever resist it.”

“Yes, it brings back memories,” Max said.

“Memories, Max?”

“Third grade at Daniel Webster Elementary School.”

“Oh. . yes. .”

“I recited a poem,” Max said, recalling. “In fact, it was a poem that I’d written myself. It had a lot of heart.”

“Do you remember it, Max?”

“Well. . let’s see. . It went:

By the shores of Lake Superior,

Where the night is dark and sceerior,

“Sceerior, Max?”

“Poems have to rhyme, you know, 99. If a poem doesn’t rhyme, it isn’t a poem.”

“Sorry, Max. Go on.”

Rising, Max placed a hand over his heart, indicating deep feeling, and continued:

I wandered, lonely as a clam,

Whistling ‘Dixie’ to Uncle Sam.

He paused and explained to 99. “A little patriotism never hurts,” he said. “And it’s always wise to play both sides of the fence.”

“I understand, Max. Don’t stop. It’s beautiful.”

Max stepped out into the clearing, and, facing 99, went on:

When suddenly there came a knocking,

As if someone loudly socking.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the spotlight, then took a step to the rear.

‘Who is there?’ I cried. ‘Hiawatha?’

But whoever it was, to answer didn’t botha.

Doing a shuffle-off-to-Buffalo, Max danced several steps backwards, nearing the spotlight.

Who was it rapping? Was it a ghost?

Could I sell you-

“Max!” 99 cried, leaping up.

Max was nowhere in sight.

99 ran to the edge of the pit. “Max-are you all right? Speak to me!”

“to the Saturday Evening Post,” Max replied from deep in the pit.

“Max! Are you delirious?”

“No, 99. That’s the last line of the poem. The final stanza goes:

Who was it rapping? Was it a ghost?

Could I sell you a subscription to the

Saturday Evening Post?

“It rhymes, Max, but it doesn’t make much sense.”

“It did then, 99. When I was in third grade I was selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door. I was getting in a plug. That’s why I got all those offers from Hollywood and Broadway. I’d created a work of art with a sales message.”

“Max. . give me your hand. I’ll help you out.”

When Max had been rescued from the pit, he and 99 covered it again with vines and twigs.

“Well, at least, we know it works,” 99 said.

“Yes, it’s perfect,” Max said. He frowned. “That’s what bothers me, 99. It’s too perfect.”

“I don’t understand, Max.”

“When Whitestone sees this spotlight, won’t he become suspicious? After all-a spotlight? In the middle of the jungle? Won’t he guess that, as an ex-vaudevillian, it was planted here especially for him?”

“Max, I think you’re right.”

“We’ll have to rig up a different kind of trap,” Max said. “Something that isn’t quite so obvious.”

“Do you have anything in mind, Max?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. The old vine-tied-to-the-tip-end-of-a-tall-supple-young-tree-and-the-other-end-with-a-loop-in-it-hidden-on-the-ground-and-covered-with-branches trick.”