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Bruno’s feet.
    When the laughter and cheers died down, Bruno said firmly, “Sorry, Percy, old boy, but your real live volunteer is going to end up real dead. Next act.”
    “Elmer Drimsdale,” Boots announced dubiously.
    Elmer ascended the stage and looked hopefully at Bruno through his thick glasses.
    “What do you do, Elm?” Bruno asked in surprise. Elmer was known as a genius, but no one was aware that he had any talent.
    “My act,” he said timidly, “is entitled ‘The Song of the Humpback Whale.’”
    Everyone tittered except Bruno Walton, who had once roomed with Elmer and half expected something of the sort.
    “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”
    Screwing his face up horribly, Elmer emitted a series of grunts, groans, mournful moans, squeals and moos. Finally, his face and voice back to normal, he explained, “Whales converse in this way. That was symbolic of ‘Greetings’ or perhaps ‘A whale is here.’”
    Bruno observed the audience reaction, which ranged from broad smiles to howls of hysteria. He signalled for order and got it.
    “Elmer, that was great! But it was too short.”
    “I also do bird calls,” Elmer offered hopefully.
    Bruno slammed a fist into his palm with delight. “I don’t even have to hear them! You work on it and be ready for rehearsal. You’re in the show. Boots, put down Elmer Drimsdale.”
    “As what?” Boots asked.
    “As a — an impressionist of nature,” Bruno declared. “Next act.”
    Next was a pair of seniors from Macdonald Hall who had brought along their own record, straw hats and canes, and shuffled around the stage, bumping into each other, roughly in time to the music. They promised faithfully to polish up the act with practice, and Boots put them down as a possibility.
    “Next.”
    “Eleanor Noseworthy,” Boots called out.
    A short plump girl appeared on the stage. “I do a gourmet act,” she informed them proudly.
    “Great,” said Bruno. “Uh — what exactly is that?”
    “I prepare a dish that I call ‘Boeuf Noseworthy avec Oignons.’”
    “Uh —” Bruno stammered, “we have no facilities for cooking on stage. Sorry. Next act.”
    “The Amazing Frederick,” Boots announced.
    The curtains parted to reveal the Amazing Frederick himself, carrying a large fishtank filled with water. “Well, what’s your act?” asked Bruno, somewhat wearily.
    “I hold my head under water for three minutes,” replied the Amazing Frederick.
    “All right,” Bruno said. “Go to it.”
    Everyone watched with awe as the Amazing Frederick drew an enormous breath and plunged his head into the fishtank, his face towards the audience.
    Two minutes passed in total silence. Then the crowd began to get edgy as the Amazing Frederick’s contorted face went from red to purple to blue and the bubbles started rising.
    “Bruno, pull him out! He’s drowning!”
    “He’ll die!”
    “He’s my brother!
Leave him there!
”
    “Help!”
    Around the three minute mark, the Amazing Frederick heaved himself out of the tank, drew another mighty breath, wrapped his head in a large beach towel and collapsed, amid thunderous applause from all present.
    “Boots,” called Bruno, “sign him up. He’ll be a smash!”
    Shaking his head in a what-will-they-think-of-next manner, Boots put the Amazing Frederick down on his list.
    Bruno then proceeded to turn down a singer who must have attracted every dog within hearing range of Macdonald Hall, a tap dancer who was fair until she slipped and twisted her ankle, a barbershop quartet which accomplished about as much harmony as a diesel horn and two comedy skits that weren’t funny at all.
    “Next,” Bruno said. He was becoming bored.
    “The — Scrimmettes?”
    Cathy Burton climbed onto the stage and whispered to Bruno at great length.
    “Put the Scrimmettes down for the show, Boots,” called Bruno as Cathy left the stage. “Next.”
    “Super Hackenschleimer,” announced Boots, who was no longer surprised by