* * * *
Which is true. Because Tiny Tim sticks his head out from between my knees and stares up at her.
“Is this the Masked Marvel?” asks the blonde ginch, with a little shriek. “Why he’s so little and old—”
And then she lets out a real shriek, because Tiny Tim leaps up in the air and begins yanking on her curls. “Gold!” he yells. “Gold!”
“That’s hair, you dope,” I tell him, pulling him down.
“Then what is that creature?” he asks.
“A ginch.”
“What?”
“A broad, a queen, a babe—a woman.”
“Woman? What is that?”
“I have not time to go into the matter with you now,” I say.
But the blonde giggles. “You mean your little friend has never seen a woman before?” she asks.
“He is a very backward personality,” I explain. “In fact he is a hermit from the Catskill Mountains.”
“You want to eat some dirt?” Tiny Tim asks her.
The blonde giggles again.
“I think he’s cute,” she says. And pats him on the head.
Tiny Tim lets go with a smile. Then he blushes. “I like you. Your hair is gold. I like gold,” he tells her. Then he makes a grab for her finger. “Gold!” he hollers, tugging at her ring.
“Mustn’t touch!” I say, politely, bopping him one on the old orange.
“Eccentric, isn’t he?” says the blonde ginch. “I hope he knows how to bowl. He must beat Yank tonight.”
“Will you be there?” asks Tiny Tim.
“Certainly,” she says.
Tiny Tim turns to me. “Very well, then. I shall bowl. I shall beat this Yank of yours if you wish me to.”
I wink at the ginch, because this is a big load off my mind.
“Give me a nice dirt supper,” squeals Tiny Tim. “I’ll show you some bowling you’ve never seen in your life!”
It turns out he isn’t kidding.
* * * *
When we get to the bowling alleys that night, Gorilla Gabface is waiting at the door.
“So there you are, Feep,” he greets me. “I do not figure you will even turn up after that foolish bet you make. In fact,” he sneers, “I already send word to Yank Albino to start exhibition stunts so the crowd will get something for its money. Which is more than you will get for your money, Feep, because I never see anyone in top form like Yank tonight. He has more strikes than an eight day clock.”
“Well here is somebody to fix his clock for him,” I announce, and push Tiny Tim out from behind me.
He does not look any too good to me, wearing that old-fashioned pair of square-cut shorts the dwarfs caper around in. More and over, he is standing with his knuckles touching the pavement and his beard hanging down between. There is a lot of caked earth on his beard, too, because he insists on having mud-pies for dessert at supper. Besides, his mask is on crooked, and you can’t see his face under the hair.
Gorilla Gabface stares. “What is this, a trained monkey?” he yaps. “I do not realize you make your money with a hand organ before, Feep.”
“This is the Masked Marvel,” I tell him. “Which you will find out as soon as we. get on the alleys. Kindly move your fat figure along, Gorilla—I want that thousand smackers.”
We go inside; Tiny Tim, the blonde ginch, and myself. Halfway down the aisle the dwarf nudges me.
“I forgot!” he whispers. “This is not April 30th. I cannot bowl. It is against the Catskill laws.”
“Quit stalling,” I whisper.
“But I mean it, Squire Feep. Something dreadful happens if we bowl on any other than the permitted day. That’s why we only appear on April 30th. On all other days something terrible occurs. For your own sake—”
Then the ginch takes over. She gives him the old eye and begins to play with his beard. “You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Tiny Tim? You must do it.”
He turns very red. “Yes, but—”
“Never mind,” I crack. “Get hold of a ball and let fly.”
Meanwhile I got hold of his whiskers and dragged him out there before the crowd of yahoos in the audience. They begin to laugh the minute they see him. Gorilla is still introducing the Masked Marvel, and when they see this dopey looking dwarf stumble out they let out a howl.
But after that first ball they howl from astonishment.
To make a short story shorter, Tiny Tim knocks down no less than 240 pins in a row in less than seven minutes.
He keeps four alleys busy—he does not bother with rules—just picks up a ball and hurls it whenever he sees ten pins together. Yank Albino stands there with his mouth open, and so does Gabface, and so does nearly everyone in the crowd. For that matter I am breathing through my tonsils myself.
The crowd howls and the balls rumble, and the dwarf bowls. And then maybe I am cuckoo, but it seems to me the rumbling is getting louder. It is getting louder. It sounds like thunder. It is thunder.
Because something hits me on the tip of the nose just then.
Water.
The thunder gets louder, I look up, and I see an extremely strange thing.
It is raining in the bowling alley!
* * * *
Yes, right there inside under the roof, rain is pouring down from the ceiling. And now the thunder is louder than ever, and I can even see a flicker of lightning.
The crowd sees it too. They set up a murmur, but it is better for them if they set up umbrellas, because in a minute the rain turns into a downpour.
Yank Albino and Gorilla Gabface run around making with amazement. But the dwarf is so excited he does not even notice—just keeps right on tossing balls down the four alleys, one after another. And now, every time he makes a strike there is more thunder, and a big streak of lightning to keep score.
People are screaming and pointing at the ceiling, and the alley is getting wet so that the balls float down. Pretty soon the pins are bobbing around on top of water, and the dwarf’s legs are wet to the knees. He is almost doing the Australian crawl every time he lets go with a ball.
Then the old panic comes on and the crowd does a Brooklyn—getting up and screaming and trying to head for the door—and Gabface runs out like he hears they discovered gold in the next room.
“Hey—stop!” I call to the dwarf. Now I realize what he means when he says something dreadful happens if he bowls. Because drowning is dreadful, and that is what we are all liable to do here. The water is rising, and now there is more lightning. But the dwarf does not stop. He can not hear me over the thunder and shouting.
I see I have to yank him off the floor, so I wade down and by this time he is up to his waist and swimming in a pool.
But he manages to hurl one last ball —and that does it.
A streak of lightning bangs down from the roof, all the lights go out, and the side of the bowling alley caves in. It is struck.
I get to the dwarf just as he is going down for the third time.
And that is when the cops get to me.
* * * *
“What do you mean, disorderly conduct?” says Magistrate Donglepootzer.
We are all lined up in front of him in night court about an hour later—me, the blonde ginch, and Tiny Tim.
The cop that brings us in looks at Magistrate Donglepootzer and shrugs. “These people are the ones I find creating a disturbance in a bowling alley,” he says.
“A disturbance? What kind of disturbance?”
“Well, this little runt here is bowling and the wall comes down.”
“That sounds pretty serious,” says the Magistrate, frowning. “You mean he knocked the wall down with a bowling ball? Doesn’t look like he has the strength.”
“Not exac
tly,” says the cop, turning red a little, “He bowls and lightning knocks the wall down.”
“Oh, lightning. Then it turns out that a storm is responsible for the damage, and not this man. So why arrest him?””
“He started the storm, Your Honor,” pipes the cop, kind of embarrassed.
“What kind, of talk is this? People don’t start storms, you know. And come to think of it, it isn’t raining at all outside.”
“I know, your Honor. It’s only raining inside this bowling alley.”
Magistrate Donglepootzer stares at the cop for a long time. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that it is raining inside a bowling alley?” he repeats, in a nasty voice.
“I know it’s hard to believe, Your Honor, but that’s the way it is. I nearly drown trying to arrest these people.”
Donglepootzer stares again. “I wish you would drown!” he groans. “Drown dead! Telling me that it’s storming inside a bowling alley and a wall falls down, and then arresting these innocent bystanders for disorderly conduct!”
“But this guy starts the storm,” protests the cop. “I see it myself. He bowls and it rains.”
Donglepootzer turns red now. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?” he says. “Or have you?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” says the cop.
“Shut up!” yells Donglepootzer. “I can’t stand this. You’re trying to tell me this midget with the moss on his face starts storms in bowling alleys. What about the mask on his face, then? Isn’t he a burglar, too? And I suppose the woman is his gun moll. And that stupid-looking oaf next to her is undoubtedly an accomplice, perhaps an umbrella salesman.”
When he says the part about the stupid-looking oaf he points to me. I resent this, because pointing is not nice.
“Speak up!” he yells at Tiny Tim, all of a sudden. “Maybe you can explain this mad story?”
“It’s true, Squire,” pipes Tiny Tim. “But, I am not responsible. If Squire Feep here hadn’t dragged me out of my cave and made me eat dirt all day, I’d still be happy up in the hills with the other dwarfs instead of making thunderstorms in bowling alleys.”
* * * *
Donglepootzer pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead. Then he talks, in a sort of strangled voice. “That last sentence is perhaps the most remarkable one I shall ever hear,” he chokes. “Before I break you,” and he points at the cop, “and before I turn all of you maniacs over to the court psychiatrist, I should like you to repeat one statement. Did you or did you not start a thunderstorm in a bowling alley?”
“I did,” says Tiny Tim.
Donglepootzer groans. “No, no,” he whispers. “I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it! All of you—come with me.”
“Where are you taking us?” asks the blonde ginch.
“Downstairs,” says Donglepootzer. “Downstairs. There is a recreation gymnasium here in the station for police officers. I believe it has a bowling alley attached to the premises. You are going to bowl for me, by little friend. I want you to show me exactly what you did before I see a psychiatrist myself.”
“You will not enjoy it,” says Tiny Tim, pulling at his beard.
And when we get to the alley, Magistrate Donglepootzer does not enjoy it, a small bit.
While the cop watches, he gives Tiny Tim a ball. I act as pinboy. And Tiny Tim lets go.
At first everything is fine. Donglepootzer cannot believe the way he knocks-the pins over.
Then I hear a rumbling.
“How about stopping?” I ask.
Donglepootzer shakes his head. “I must see this,” he groans.
I shrug. Tiny Tim bowls. Thunder growls.
Well, what’s the use? All I can state is that ten minutes later Donglepootzer is trying to dog-paddle his way out of the alley when a bolt of lightning uncorks from the ceiling and the police gymnasium roof caves in like an eggshell.
“Help!” yells the blonde ginch.
“Blub-blub,” gurgles the dwarf, going under water.
“Holy Smokes!” bawls the cop.
“Six months for disorderly conduct,” groans Magistrate Donglepootzer.
* * * *
It is lucky for me that Tiny Tim and I end up in the same cell that night.
It is also lucky for me that the dwarf is in good appetite. Otherwise he can never swallow all the dirt he does, to say nothing of about three pounds of cement.
But he manages. It is nearly six a.m. when he finally gets a hole big enough at the bottom of the side of the cell and wriggles out.
He crawls down the hall to the turnkey’s office and manages to sneak the keys off the desk. Then he crawls back.
I unlock the cell and we do a fast and furious powder. This powder does not end until we are in the car and heading out of town.
Before I go, I stop for only one thing. I call up Gorilla Gabface on the phone and get him out of bed.
“About that thousand bucks,” I tell him, “I still claim my Masked Marvel wins and you owe me.”
“I owe you nothing, Feep!” growls Gabface. Then he laughs. “Because the match is called on account of rain!”
I let out a few harsh names, but I can do nothing—except get out of town before the heat is on.
Which I do.
We reach the Catskills that afternoon. I dump Tiny Tim out of the back seat.
“Well, now what?” he asks me.
“Help me with these canned goods,”
I tell him. “Bring them inside your private bowling alley here. I need something to eat these next 363 days.”
“You are staying here?” he asks.
Where else? The heat is on in town for me, and you can’t go back to your little pals until next April 30th. We might as well live here together. Then neither one of us gets into trouble. We are all alone here in the alley on top of the mountain, and I hope we stay that way.”
We do.
There is not much worth telling about that year. I am not cut out for the hermit life, being an uptown boy, but after I teach Tiny Tim how to deal a few hands of pinochle, we get along all right. Beside I keep him in bowling practice.
Every once in a while I slip down the mountain into town to catch up with this and that. I find out from the local bladder’s sports section that Gorilla Gabface takes his Yank Albino on a tour all over the country, and is cleaning up.
I just smile, because I figure out a plan. I smile and keep track of the days, and finally the time comes.
One morning I grab Tiny Tim by the beard to wake him up, as usual. Only this time I have a scissors in my other hand. And in two snips the beard is off.
“What is this?” he bawls. “Squire Feep, what are you doing?”
“I am shaving you,” I tell him. “But close. So hold still.”
* * * *
He does not hold still, but I shave him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he squeaks feeling his chin.
“It means that you are now Tiny Tim, the Boy Bowler,” I say “Let me put on this hair dye, now.”
Which I do, holding him down until I finish and he is a little clean-shaven guy with black hair.
“Boy Bowler?” he gasps.
“Certainly.” I tell him. “You do not think I spend my time this year with you because I love your company. I prefer to be a hermit with somebody like Lana Turner. But I am going to get my money back from this Gorilla Gabface before you go back to the hills for good, and so I figure out this scheme.
“Today is April 27th. We drive to Milwaukee and arrive there on the 29th. I wire ahead and arrange a match between the Boy Bowler and Yank Albino—because the papers tell me he will be playing exhibition games there. And I make another bet with Gorilla, only this time I collect, rain or no rain. Then we fly bac
k here in time, for the 30th and you can join your pals, the Catskills Mountain Junior G-Men, or whatever they are.”
Tiny Tim listens to this and scratches the place where his beard should be. “Methinks it sounds reasonable,” he decides. “But it rains when I bowl.”
“Just leave that part to me,” I say. “I-have it all figured out, this time.”
Which I have. Only it is not figured out the way I care to tell him about. Because I tell him it is the 27th when I know it is the 28th. So we will arrive in Milwaukee on the 30th and hold the match.
Of course the 30th is the one day a year when it will not rain if the dwarf bowls.
That is not such a hot trick on Tiny Tim, I know—but I need the money and after all I spend a year in hiding. I figure that the next year will be easier on him, now that he knows pinochle. Besides, when I clean up, I will not only buy him a bushel of the best dirt, but also some fancy milorganite.
So we make the drive. A thousand miles between the Catskills and Wisconsin is not too easy, but I am so happy at figuring things out, I do not mind.
In Buffalo I wire ahead to Gorilla Gabface that I find a new champion bowler and want another match with Yank Albino.
“Play it up big,” I state. “My boy is only 7 years old and a marvel. But five grand says he beats Yank Albino.” I get an answer waiting for me in Cleveland. It is OK, bet and all.
And so, on April 30th, at 8 o’clock, we pull up in front of the Milwaukee alleys, Tiny Tim and I.
It is a beautiful spring day, and I cannot help but wonder how the dwarfs are enjoying it back in the Catskills. Only I do not speak to Tiny Tim about this, because he will not understand and just get sore.
So far everything is under control. I buy clothes on the way, and now Tiny Tim the Boy Bowler is wearing a little knicker suit and a moppet’s hat. He is disguised perfectly, as I shave him again, close.
* * * *
Gorilla is waiting in the office, and when he sees Tiny Tim he doesn’t tumble.
“Feep, you pick up the oddest characters,” he chuckles. “First a fugitive from a miniature golf course, and now a school boy. Of course it’s tremendous publicity stunt stuff, but why you want to plunk away five grand, I don’t know.”
The Fantasy MEGAPACK ® Page 19