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business, backtracked into old, forgot to ask for committee and treasurer reports entirely, and didn’t let me read the minutes or talk about the Two Tars convention plans.
    “Gentlemen,” he said, “Frank Butler came all the way from Philadelphia to tell us about the joint meeting.”
    Everyone listened respectfully, with the possible exception of Al Kilgore.
    “We gotta forget about a September bash,” Butler stated. “No convention facilities available. But we can grab the Village Inn in Valley Forge right after July 4th.” He waved down the gabble of protest. “Yeah, yeah, I know! But our board says we can slap the whole shindig together, program, eats, and booze, and all you birds gotta do is find a way to come. Charter a bus.”
    Natie interrupted. “That’s hardly four weeks after our own banquet, we can’t rent a bus, the treasury’ll be flat busted!” He always fought losing battles on overextension of club funds. It helped account for the upset stomachs and the perennial tense smile Natie had, caused by his pathetic desire to be liked, and his self-annoyance at the trait. In our committee debates, he was usually ignored unless he threw a temper tantrum.
    The great transportation debate continued. Dutchy suggested five dollars be added on to the cost of every banquet ticket to help pay for the bus.
    Phil grumbled, “I can’t afford it as it is now .”
    O. J. mentioned that the tickets were already printed.
    “So run off a new batch,” Dutchy said. He was always willing to volunteer more work for other people.
    At that point, there was much arguing and Dutchy’s proposal was worried to shreds. Natie tried to get a word in, but O. J. didn’t notice the treasurer’s politely upraised hand with everyone else arguing at once. Natie’s face grew redder and redder. At last, he slammed the big Sons checkbook on the table and screamed for the others to shut up.
    The Lambs bartender requested that Natie lower his voice.
    “We can’t afford new tickets,” Natie said, half mumbling, his cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.
    Dutchy sneered. “Whatcha doin’ with the treasury, buying a refrigerator to keep MTM in?”
    “Damn it,” said Natie, “I just pay the bills. Talk to O. J. or Hal about running them up!”
    O. J. quickly and deftly steered the discussion away from financial matters by observing that he wanted to get home by eleven o’clock to tape the soundtrack of Broadway Thru a Keyhole on WOR-TV. The art of channeled digression. It got the buffs onto a ten-minute tangent concerning the brief career of Russ Columbo.
    When the original subject was returned to, it was agreed (mostly out of exhaustion) that the Two Tars would proceed with convention plans and the parent tent would discuss transportation another day. Natie looked very dubious.
    I said I’d inform Butler of the decision when he woke. His head was flat on the table; he snored. Toby moved his tie out of the cheese spread.
    “All right, gentlemen,” said O. J., “the main topic tonight is the June banquet. The Laurel and Hardy film this year, with your sanction, will be The Hoose-Gow. Fin has a good part in it, Charley Hall has a bit, too. As for Mae—listen to this! We’re actually going to see what there is left of The Knifethrower !”
    “WOW!”
    Everyone babbled excitedly. Dutchy whistled. “How’d you run it down?” he asked. Nostalgia was the only area he ever opened up on. “I thought it was gone for good.”
    “Hal found it.”
    “Where?”
    “He’s got sources,” O. J. replied. “Who knows—”
    “—what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!” Phil Faxon sneered in a sinister timbre.
    The entire committee joined him in an imitation of the invisible crime-fighter’s memorably aquilinic snigger.
    “To continue,” O. J. chuckled, “at the banquet we will have on the podium, Bob and Ray once more, Rodney Dangerfield, our own Chuck McCann, and Butterfly McQueen—”
    “What she