Read Online Get Smart 5 - Missed It By That Much! by William Johnston - Free Book Online
Authors: William Johnston
Tags: Tv Tie-Ins
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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 & 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 & 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.
“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 & 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 & 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.
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