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denomination can attend without fear of—”
    “How come the Marx Brothers never make a picture in color?” asked another pretty girl.
    Groucho, looking perplexed, touched his cheek. “We don’t?” he asked. “No wonder I looked so pale in the rushes. Of course, you should have seen me in the bulrushes. Cute as a bug’s ear I was when they plucked me out of the stream and—”
    “C’mon, what’s the real reason you guys never appear in Technicolor?”
    Sighing, Groucho raised his eyes toward the sand-colored domed ceiling. “It’s a sad story, young lady,” he replied. “It all has to do with Natalie Kalmus, the statuesque beauty who controls Technicolor—and when I say statuesque, I’m alluding to that statue of General Grant in the local park. At any rate, Natalie has never forgiven me because of an unfortunate incident in a phone booth in Tijuana. She—”

    “You told us a little while ago, Groucho, that you were in that phone booth with Joan Crawford.”
    “I was, when who should walk by but Natalie Kalmus. It made quite a scene, especially in Technicolor.”
    The plump woman had made her way to the edge of the group now, autograph album in hand. She said, “I just love you in the movies, Mr. Marx.”
    “How about loving me in the baggage car—say in about an hour?”
    The plump husband popped to his feet. “Here now, you can’t talk to my wife that way.”
    “I most certainly can, sir. I have a valid permit from the Fish and Game … ah, do my old eyes deceive me or is that Frank Denby and the lovely Jane Danner I see yonder?” He hopped down from his chair and started slouching his way toward us.
    “Who the hell is Frank Denby?” asked one of the male dancers.
    “Don’t know. Nobody famous. But Jane Danner draws that great comic strip.”
    Groucho took hold of Jane’s hand and, bowing low and with considerable sound effects, kissed it several times.
    “How come you’re on the Super Chief?” I asked him as he straightened up.
    He curtsied to me and explained, “I was feeling extremely avuncular yesterday, Rollo. It therefore occurred to me that you two innocents needed someone older and wiser to chaperone you on this perilous journey across uncharted lands. I couldn’t think of anyone who filled the bill, so I decided to tag along myself. At great personal expense and admirable sacrifice, I cancelled my plane ticket and booked a compartment on this very train.” He held up a cautionary finger. “I’m a mere two rooms over from you, my children, and I intend to meditate and practice my Tibetan yoga for the entire trip. So keep the caterwauling down to a minimum, if you please.”
    “Why, Groucho, what a wonderful surprise this is,” said Jane, smiling
sweetly at him. “My horoscope predicted a train disaster, but this is even better.”
     
     
    J ane and I sat with Groucho in the dining car while he had his dinner. As the Super Chief was pulling out of the Pomona station, a plump woman in a flowered dress came over, somewhat cautiously, to stand near our white-clothed table.
    Very quietly she held out a red-covered autograph album. “I’d be honored to have your autograph, Mr. Marx,” she told him.
    Groucho looked up from the menu he’d been studying. “No, you wouldn’t, madam. You’d be disgraced, drummed out of the corps, and run out of town on a rail,” he informed her. “So remember, when you’re sleeping on a park bench, that you brought it on yourself.” Grabbing up a pencil from the table, he wrote in her book and returned it to her.
    She studied the page, then, disappointed, said, “All this says is ‘clam chowder, pot roast, and coffee.’”
    “Ah, forgive me.” Groucho retrieved the book. “I wrote my dinner order here by mistake.” He rubbed the blunt end of the stubby pencil over his chin. “I forgot to ask you if you wanted the plain autograph or the deluxe autograph.”
    “What’s the difference?”
    “Well, the deluxe autograph involves my