He races back to where the guy stands, bewildered, and begins to tear off his vest and coat. Then he rips his shirt and replaces all the old clothes with stuff from the shop. The little old fink stands there in a cloud of dust while Oscar pats the new clothing into shape.

  "Pity you ain't taller," says Oscar, throwing on a size 42 vest. "But you're young — you'll grow yet."

  Then he grabs the trousers. "You must have ripped these when you fell," he comments, showing the guy the place where he was grabbed by the hook. "Well, don't worry, I've got a pair of leg-tapestries here that will give you legs like a chorus queen."

  He jams a pair of pants over the scrawny legs, thrusts a cane into the guy's hand, and plunges a tie-pin into his neck. Then he steps back and registers ecstasy.

  "Marvelous!" he croons. "You look just like a page torn out of Esquire."

  What he looks like certainly would be torn out of any magazine, quick, by whoever would see it. But this is all part of Oscar's song and dance. "Now let's see," he mumbles. "That's $1.49 and $2.76 and $7.63 and $9.27 and $3.04 and $.18 for Social Security, and $.05 for the glass of water I revive you with. Comes to a grand total of not more and not less than $43.77 you owe me."

  The little old customer looks bewildered.

  "But I have no money," he says. "I'm sure I'm grateful to you for taking care of me and getting me all fixed up with these splendid new clothes. But I'm not in a position to reimburse you. Ouch!"

  He makes the last remark because of Oscar the Tiger, who is already snarling at him and clawing off his clothes in one furious leap. "Wait," pleads the customer. "I can pay later — soon."

  "Later!"

  Oscar rips off his tie.

  "Soon!"

  He tears the shirt open.

  "Pay me later, eh?"

  He reefs the pants.

  "A wise guy! Huh!"

  Off goes belt and socks.

  "But," pants the old bird, trying to resist while he is whirling around in the air like a pinwheel, "I am an inventor, you see, and for the past year I've been working. Ouch! And I am just on my way to the Patent Office today to get it registered and I am sure it will make me a lot of money."

  "Money?" Oscar pauses, clutching the pants. "What kind of invention you got, Buddy?"

  The little old guy strikes a pose in his underwear. "Well, sir, I'm glad you ask me that. Most people just laugh at me when I mention it. They think I'm crazy. But just yesterday I terminate my experiments and complete the invention of what I call the Midascope."

  "Midascope?"

  "Simple. Named after Midas, the king of the well-known legend.

  "The bozo with the golden touch?"

  "Exactly."

  "I don't get it."

  "My invention is a super-reagent which has the property of turning all inanimate matter into gold."

  "You mean you could turn wood into gold, for example? Like that King Midas did in the story by touching it?"

  "Definitely. Hence the name. However, there is nothing supernatural about my discovery. Supernormal, perhaps, yes. But this does not operate by touch — it consists of a ray. A simple ray, which, if directed properly at an object, will transmute its atomic components into the structural equivalency of gold."

  "Cut the double-talk," Oscar tells him. Then he turns to me. "What do you say, Lefty? I think you better call the zoo and tell them one of their squirrels got out of his cage."

  "You mean to infer I am demented?" hollers the old bird.

  "Not at all. I think you're nuts," Oscar replies.

  "Then you'd better take a look." He stoops down and fumbles in his old discarded coat. Then he pulls out a small metal tube that looks like a flashlight. There is a cap over the end. “By removing this cap the ray is released," he says, smirking.

  "Oh, yeah?" I put in my two cents worth. "Then how come the cap does not turn to gold?"

  "Because it is made out of a metal specially treated to resist the action of transmutation," says the guy, going back into his scientific double-talk. "But take the cap off and you get gold right away wherever you point the ray."

  Oscar steps up and yanks the cylinder out of the old bird's mitts.

  "Looks like a fake to me," he yaps. "I bet if I open it up and look in, I get a black eye — like those ones with the hula dancer's picture inside."

  The small article sniffs and looks very haughty. "There is no trickery involved, gentlemen," he says. "This represents my life-work. I guarantee its genuineness. To prove it, I will allow you to point the ray at whatever article you may choose in this shop."

  "Nothing doing, buddy," says Oscar. "How do I know it ain't one of these disintegrator-rays like you read about? Blow my furniture or clothes to bits."

  I personally do not see where this will be such a great loss, considering the quality of Oscar's furniture and clothing stock, but I keep still. "Wait a minute," Oscar says. "I will step outside. There is a fruit store right across the street, and I will get hold of something to experiment on."

  So he ducks off and comes back in about a minute with something in his hand. A banana. "Here we are," he says. "Now, buddy, you turn on this thing and let's see you coin some gold."

  The little stranger takes the cylinder and holds it in his hand. He sets the banana down on the counter, then looks at it. He smiles. All at once he pulls the cap off his cylinder and points it at the monkey-cigar. Nothing happens.

  No light shines out. Nothing explodes. The little fink just waves the cylinder at the banana, that's all.

  "Fake!" sneers Oscar.

  The banana lies there on the counter, and Oscar snatches it up in disgust. All at once he stands frozen with the banana in his hand. "It feels different," he mutters. "Heavier." I take a good look. The banana is still yellow, but it is shining. Shining like gold! "It is gold!" yells Oscar. "Solid gold!"

  He begins to dance up and down, waving the jungle pigs-knuckle in the air. "It works, you see? It really works!" he shouts.

  I grab at the banana. Sure enough, it is heavy metal now. I can't peel it. The whole thing is a golden lump. "Now what do we do?" I ask.

  "What do we do?" echoes Oscar, staring at the banana. "What do we do? Why — we just run right over to that fruit store again and bring back a watermelon!"

  I do not wish to go into details about the next hour we spend. Oscar does bring back a watermelon, and the stranger does turn it to gold with his cylinder. Then we sort of go goldbugs, I guess. Because we start to turn the junk in the store to gold. We wave the cylinder at the stuff on the counters and on the shelves. We get golden golf clubs and tennis rackets, gold fountain pens, vases, pictures, microscopes, candid cameras. We even get gold leaf pages in the books when we point the cylinder at them. It is all like one grand and glorious bingo game where we always hold the winning corn. Nothing is impossible. An hour ago we are lower than a worm's toenails and now we are kicking around the pot at the end of the rainbow. No wonder we do not have much of the old self-control.

  Finally Oscar climbs up on a golden step-ladder and points the cylinder at the stuffed moose-head hanging over the door. He looks at the golden moose for a minute and then he stops and frowns. He climbs down slowly. "Why are you rubbing your forehead?" I ask.

  "Because a thought hits me."

  "You should have concussion of the brain," I remark, but he ignores this. He points at me and the little inventor. "We are wasting our time," he says.

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning just this — why should we hang around here trying to turn this petty stuff into carats? We can go out and really coin money with this thing. Why not turn it on the sidewalks, on the trees, on the buildings? Imagine owning a whole skyscraper of gold! A 22-carat Empire State Building? Or a golden Subway? I can picture Radio City—"

  "Stop! " says the little old fink, striking another pose in his long underwear. "You talk like a fool."

  "I do, eh?"

  "Certainly. Allow me to remind you of a few. elementary truths. To begin with, there's a government law making it impossible for anyone to own more than $100 in raw gold."25

  "'Laws,' he says!" snorts Oscar.

  "Very well, then," continues the small inventor. "If you do not respect government laws, perhaps the laws of economics will prove more stringent. Don't you realize that if you run around indiscriminately transforming everything into gold, that gold will lose its value? Don't you understand that if you create too much gold it will become common and therefore worthless?"

  "I am willing to risk it," Oscar sneers.

  "Well I'm not," the stranger snaps. "As I say, I am on my way to the Patent Office with this working model. I intend to register it and present the formulae involved to our government; to keep, not to use. In times of need, the cylinder can be employed. But it must be worked with discretion. I can see that common men cannot be entrusted with such great power. You, my friend, have already bruised your knees bowing down to the Golden Calf. It is an object lesson to prove mankind is not yet ready for easy riches."

  I get the little fink's point all right, but Oscar grunts. "Get off your soapbox and come down to Earth," he says. "Here we got a fortune in our grasp and you want to give it away."

  "We?" says the inventor. "It's my cylinder. I demand that you return it to me at once so that I may proceed on my errand to the Patent Office."

  "Cylinders you want?" Oscar sneers. "Nuts you get!"

  This is a very discourteous statement, and it seems to make the little guy quite angry, because he suddenly makes a dive for Oscar and tries to grab the cylinder out of his hand. There is quite a lusty scuffle, and all in a moment the two of them are rolling on the floor.

  I look on, very shocked. Because I would not roll on a floor as dirty as Oscar's for all the gold in the world. Not even dice would I roll. But in a minute I am even more shocked. Oscar jumps up on his feet and grabs the cylinder. The little old guy starts to dive for him, with his underwear flapping in the breeze. And all at once Oscar whips the cap off the cylinder and points it — right at the inventor's legs and feet.

  There is a hideous scream. Then, an awful thump. The little guy stops short and stares down at his waist. He is still screaming, but every time he tries to take a step the thumps drown him out. Because Oscar has turned the bottom half of his underwear to solid gold!

  "I can't move," wails the inventor fink. "It's too heavy!"

  "Good," Oscar grunts, putting the cylinder back on the counter.

  “Get me out of here," yells the little stranger. "The underwear is frozen tight to me. Even the buttons are solid, and the buttonholes. Get a can-opener or a pick-axe and chip me loose!"

  "You mean I should go to work on you like a miner?" asks Oscar. "Not on your life. Seeing how you cannot move, I am going to carry you into the back room and let you cool off for a while. Do not make any noise, or I will turn the rest of your lingerie to gold and you will be a statue from the neck down."

  "What are you going to do with me?" quivers the little old guy.

  "Nothing, if you are a good boy. I will let you stay in the back room and see that you are fed and that nobody melts you down into wedding rings. Meanwhile I will make use of your little invention— very good use."

  While he is talking, Oscar is shoving the half-man, half-statue back of the counter to the back room overlooking the river. It all happens so fast I scarcely make up my mind. And just as I do make it up, Oscar comes back and raps me on the knuckles. So I drop the cylinder back on the counter again.

  "Trying to put the snatch on it, eh?" he grates.

  "But—"

  "I can't trust you either, can I, Feep?" he says. "Maybe I better tie you up, too. In a little burlap bag. Then I can turn the bag into gold and toss you into the river. You always say you want a luxurious funeral."

  "Honest, I'm not going to steal the cylinder."

  "I'll say you're not," Oscar tells me. "And you're not going to say anything about our inventor friend, either. You are going to be very quiet while I figure out what I want to do with this little money maker."

  So while Oscar sits there trying to figure out what to do with his little money maker, I am sitting there trying to figure out what to do with my little money-spender. Because I do not forget that I have a date with Sweetheart Singer this evening, and I still do not raise any money to raise whoopee on.

  I do not see which way to turn, but if it is any consolation, neither does Oscar. He sits there grumbling to himself under his breath, thinking up scheme after scheme. But always something is wrong. "What if I do turn sidewalks into gold," he says. "I don't own the sidewalks. Also, the Empire State Building is out — why should I make money for Al Smith? Of course, I already got a fortune right here in the store, but I must figure out a way to get more. I need a lot of stuff I can turn into gold."

  Every time he makes a remark Oscar rubs his bald spot. And he makes so many remarks I figure he will wear himself down until he has nothing above the forehead in a little while. But he is so greedy that no scheme he thinks of will satisfy him. All at once he sighs and gets up. "Well, maybe I better think some more," he yawns. "After all, there is plenty of time. The cylinder will not run away."

  "That is right," I say.

  "Oh, I forget!" he shouts. "Quick, I must lock up the store! With all this gold lying around I don't want any customers wandering in."

  He races to the door, pausing only to turn the hook into gold and then going on his merry way. "Better close the awnings, too," he decides. "Don't want anybody looking in through the windows tonight."

  "I'll do it," I volunteer.

  "Good."

  So I step outside while Oscar waits. When I skid past the door I do not hoist any awnings. I merely hoist my coat tails and race away down the street. Because Oscar is right when he says the cylinder will not run away. He just does not figure that I will run away, and that I will take the cylinder with me. Which I do, lifting the thing off the counter just before I go out, when his back is turned.

  So now I make very fleet with the feet, and behind me I hear Oscar yelling, "Stop, thief, stop thief!" at the top of his voice.

  Only this does not do any good. Because on such a street as the one where his store is, this command can apply to almost anyone passing by. I just keep running, holding the cylinder under my coat, and I do not pause until I dash into the lobby of Sweetheart's apartment building.

  It is already dark, and I do not wish to be late for my date. My heart is going like an overtime shift in a defense plant, but it pounds even faster when I walk up to Sweetheart's door. Because I am really gooey for this ginch. I got no more chance when I get near her than a hot marshmallow has around a Girl Scout.

  I hold the cylinder very tight under mv coat when I step up and ring the bell. Already I am making plans. I will tell her about this cylinder, and it will make her very happy and then perhaps we will get ourselves wedlocked. And this suits me fine. Some people do not approve of such an idea, because they say this Sweetheart is too mercenary. Me, I know different. She is not mercenary at all — only greedy. And I figure the cylinder will take care of that. I mean to return it to the inventor, naturally, but I merely need to use it tonight.

  So I have my little act all prepared. When the door opens I strike a pose with my arms stretched out and I whisper, "Sweetheart!"

  "Ain't youse a little bold, stranger?" says a deep voice.

  To make a long story embarrassing, it is not Sweetheart at all in the doorway, but a big lug. I look up into a bristly red beard. Then I look further up into a big red mouth and a bigger red nose, and then I look way up into little red eyes.

  This is quite a squint, because the lug in the doorway is over six feet tall in his stocking feet. Which is probably the way they measure him, because he does not look like the kind of personality who ever wears shoes.

  "Was youse looking for somebody?" the lug suggests. "Or maybe just for a sock in the jaw?"

  I stand there figuring out what to do. The way I see it, the only chance I have of punching him in the nose is to jump up in the air and hit it with the top of my head. Just then Sweetheart sticks her attractive puss around the doorway. "Oh, hello Lefty," she says. Then she turns to the lug. "Will you excuse me a minute?" she coos, very sweet. And steps out in the hall with me, shutting the door behind her. "I'm sorry, Lefty," she tells me. "I forget all about our little date for this evening. I am going out with this gentleman friend of mine from Alaska."

  "You mean that polar bear with the henna fur?" I snap.

  "Don't talk that way," she pouts. "He is none other than the famous Klondike Ike. He is a very wealthy prospector."

  "Prospector, eh?" I mention, in a sarcastic manner. "What does he own — a halitosis mine in Breath Valley?"

  "He is rich," sniffs Sweetheart. "Why, he always carries a bag of raw gold dust around in his pocket."

  "That's nothing," I tell her. "If it's gold you want, I am plenty dusty with it myself. I am so rich I am filthy."

  She gives me a fishy stare. "What are you trying to hand me, Lefty Feep? The only way you make money is by playing a slot machine — with a hammer."

  "Give me five minutes," I yell. "Just five minutes. I'll be back here with more gold dust than this Eskimo Elmer of yours ever has."

  "His name is Klondike Ike," Sweetheart says. "And yours is mud."

  She slams the door on me.

  Well, I am far from discouraged. I run downstairs and into the backyard of the apartment building. I find the janitor's shovel and a couple paper bags from the garbage incinerator. I fill the bags with dirt and get out the cylinder. I uncap it and point it at the dirt.

  "Midascope, do your stuff," I whisper.

  In thirty seconds I am puffing up the stairs again, lugging up two sacks filled with gold dust. I take out a couple nuggets and pound on the door.

 

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