The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

Tink Takes a Fling

First published in Fantastic Adventures, June 1942.

Central Park was alive with the first touch of spring. A soft balmy breeze skipped gaily through the green shrubbery and the sun that splashed extravagantly and gloriously over the wide lawns transformed the emerald heart of Manhattan into a beautiful fairyland.

A robin sang, leaves frisked over the gravelled walks and nature’s general air of happy contentment was reflected in the faces of the starry-eyed couples strolling through the park.

One of these couples sauntered slowly past a bubbling drinking fountain, completely unaware that they were the subject of a rather bitter argument.

“Disgusting!” Nastee said peevishly.

Tink glanced at the passing couple and sighed.

“It’s not disgusting,” he said dreamily, “it’s wonderful. They’re in love.”

“Bah!” Nastee said.

The couple in question strolled on, completely unaware that their rapturous state had started another of the arguments that went on interminably between Tink and Nastee, the city-dwelling Leprechauns.

The two tiny people were lying on the concrete rim of the bubbler looking lazily up at the sky when their eternal argument resumed. Now, Nastee swung himself to a sitting position and stared moodily at the glinting water that bubbled up from the fountain.

“Love,” he said. “Bah! It’s stupid and silly. I don’t like it.”

A man stopped and bent over for a drink and Nastee, knowing ordinary humans couldn’t see him, amused himself by kicking a spray of water into his eyes.

“Damn these crazy fountains!” the man snarled, groping for his handkerchief. Swearing eloquently he strode angrily away.

Tink closed his eyes and a dreamy smile touched his lips.

“Love is the most glorious thing in the world,” he said.

Nastee looked at him exasperatedly.

“Stop saying that over and over again,” he said. “Anyway, how do you know?”

Nastee’s sharp eyes caught the sudden flush in Tink’s cheeks.

“I just know, that’s all,” Tink said defensively.

“So that’s it,” Nastee said with a sly grin. “You’ve fallen in love yourself.”

Tink reddened in confusion.

“Of course not. You’re being absolutely silly. How could I be in love? I’ve only seen her once.”

“Oho!” chortled Nastee. “Who is she?”

Tink sat up and put his chin in his hand. A worried frown was on his face.

“That’s just it,” he said, “I don’t know her name or anything about her. I just got a glimpse of her through a window while she was working.” He sighed tragically. “She’s glorious.”

Nastee’s curiosity got the better of him.

“What’s she like?” he asked. “What does she do?”

“Well,” Tink said eagerly, “she’s pretty as a rose and she works for a composer.”

“She must be smart,” Nastee said grudgingly.

“Naturally, she’s smart,” Tink said. “I could tell at a glance that she was the only one in the bunch with brains and beauty.”

“Bunch?” Nastee said in surprise. “Was it a harem?”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Tink said frostily. “She is the end girl in a chord. There are three other girls assigned to this particular composition, but none of them compare with mine.”

“Mine!” Nastee jeered. “Do you think she’ll bother with you?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Tink said gloomily. “Anyway I’m going to see her again and try to talk with her.”

“When?” Nastee demanded.

“Right away,” he said.

“I think I’ll go along,” Nastee said. Tink stopped. “Oh, no you don’t.”

“You can’t stop me,” Nastee said. “There’s no wall safe here to lock me in like you did the last time. Anyway I’ll be good.”[9]

“Is that a promise?” Tink demanded. Nastee smiled slyly.

“Of course,” he said.

The young man at the piano was concentrating on his work with almost fierce intentness. A shock of unruly black hair fell over his pale forehead as his fingers pounded out dramatic, thunderous chords, but he only shook it from his eyes impatiently and continued playing.

Occasionally he stopped long enough to pencil in a few notes on the unfinished score before him, then his fingers returned to the keyboard to draw forth harmony and melody that swelled through the small, plainly furnished room with magic beauty.

Finally he stopped and ran both hands wearily through his untidy hair. His face was drawn with tiny lines of fatigue, but an unquenchable flame of inspiration burned in his eyes.

He was about to return to his work when a slim girl appeared in the doorway that led to the apartment’s tiny kitchen. She wore a brightly colored apron and there was a smudge of flour on her nose. Her smile was gay.

“Would New York’s finest composer care to stop for a cup of coffee?” she asked.

The young man at the piano grinned at her and stretched luxuriously.

“Sounds like a good idea,” he said. “I’m getting a bit tired. Will the wife of New York’s finest composer join me?”

“I certainly will,” the girl answered. “Come on.”

The young man sighed and his face became serious.

“Ann,” he said suddenly, “how do we know this music is any good? How do we know Mr. Hummert will use it for his revue even if I do finish it by Friday?”

The girl placed her hands on her hips in a comically belligerent pose and one small foot tapped the floor impatiently.

“Peter Hardwicke,” she said, “if you don’t stop doubting your own ability I’ll — well, I don’t know what I will do, but it will be something drastic. Of course your overture is good. Even though it isn’t finished yet I know that. And if Mr. Hummert doesn’t take it,” she added defiantly, “why someone else will.”

“Hummert has to take it,” the young composer said, almost savagely. “Don’t you realize honey, this is our big chance. If I muff it I may never get another.”

“You are not going to muff it,” his wife said crisply, “so stop thinking about it. Now come into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. The rest will do you good.”

The young man stood up and put his arms around her.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said huskily.

“I do,” she said. “You’d never get a decent cup of coffee.

He smiled at her and rumpled her short auburn hair.

“Don’t get fresh with New York’s finest composer.”

They both laughed then and walked into the kitchen, arm-in-arm.

When Peter Hardwicke returned to his work a few moments later, he noticed that a draft of air was blowing through the room. Glancing about he saw that the window facing Central Park was open about an inch at the bottom.

He was sure that it had been closed when he left the room, but it was definitely open now. Frowning over this minor mystery he stepped to the window and closed it, unaware that his action almost occasioned a major disaster in the plans of Tink and Nastee.

“Whew!” Tink cried. “That was close. He almost caught the seat of my pants when he slammed the window.”

“It would have served you right,” Nastee said, “for being so poky.”

Tink climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. His merry face was beaming with expectancy.

“Anyway we’re inside,” he said.

Peter Hardwicke had returned to his piano and again his flying fingers were scattering brilliant melody about the room. His back was to the window, concealing the keyboard from Tink and Nastee.

“All right,” Nastee said sourly, “we’re inside. Now, where’s this girl you’re mooning about?”

Tink executed a little jig.

“Follow me,” he said.

Leaping from the sill he caught a lamp cord and swung himself up to the piano. Nastee joined him an instant later.

From this point of view they had a clear view of the piano keyboard. Tink stretched himself on his stomach with a contented sigh and cupped his chin in his hand, but Nastee’s mouth fell open in surprise.

For visible to him on the keyboard were four beautiful, gracefully moulded girls, dancing with elfin delicacy over the piano keys and leaping lightly as feathers over the flashing fingers of the composer.[10]

They were clad in wisps of flowered material that billowed and floated around them as they soared from key to key with lithe abandon. Their every movement, every gesture was synchronized to the tempo of the music, and the gay festive mood of their dance was attuned to the spirited rhythm of the composition.

“Holy gee!” Nastee gasped. For once his surly sarcasm was forgotten. His metropolitan sophistication was staggered.

Tink grinned at him.

“They’re pretty keen, aren’t they? But notice the one on this end. She’s in a class by herself.”

Nastee glanced at the girl whose charms had captivated Tink and shook his head slowly and sadly.

“Red hair,” he said succinctly. “That’s bad.”

“What’s bad about that?” Tink demanded. “I like red hair.”

Nastee sat down and swung his legs over the side of the piano. Now that his first interest in the dancing girls had worn away, his normally irascible attitude was returning.

“Too much temper,” he said. “She’s probably the type who’d throw acorns at you when she got mad.”

“You’re crazy,” Tink said with heat. With injured dignity he turned away from Nastee and then his cheeks flamed with humiliation. For evidently the sound of the altercation had carried to the dancing girls on the keyboard.

All four of them were regarding him with wide startled eyes. In their surprised consternation they lost the tempo of the music and huddled together whispering animatedly and peeking occasionally at Tink and Nastee.

The melody pouring from the piano became perceptively ragged. Peter Hardwicke brought his hand down in a desperate savage chord and then ran his fingers distractedly through his hair.

“Damn!” he muttered. “That doesn’t sound right at all.” He wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers and began playing again, repeating the passage that had broken down.

The elfin girls had recovered from their shock by this time. Responding to the music they came to life in a brilliantly spirited dance that was as lilting as a leaf in a breeze.

Once again the music was sweet and melodious and graceful.

The red haired girl flitted down the keyboard and twirled about in perfect time before Tink.

“It isn’t at all polite to stare at people,” she said over her shoulder.

“It’s not polite, but it’s fun,” Tink said. “What’s your name?”

The girl tossed her head saucily.

“What difference does it make to you?” She started to dance away.

“Wait a minute!” Tink cried. “I’ve got to know your name if you’re going to spend the afternoon in the park with me.”

Twirling, the girl danced slowly back to Tink. Her delicately chiseled chin was grimly firm.

“Who said I was going to the park with you?” she demanded.

“It was just an idea,” Tink said uneasily.

“It wasn’t a good one,” the girl said.

“All right,” Tink shrugged resignedly, “we’ll stay here and get acquainted. It won’t hurt to tell me your name, will it?”

The girl glanced up into Tink’s cheerfully smiling face and she missed a beat.

“No, I guess not,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I’m Jingle.”

“Then I’ll call you Jing,” Tink said promptly.

The red haired girl dropped her eyes and smiled. Then she wheeled away and twirled toward the opposite end of the keyboard, but in her excited confusion her feet skipped another beat.

The music stopped with a heavy discouraged crash. The young composer stood up and clenched his fists nervously.

“Something’s off,” he muttered. “What a time to get snagged. I’ve got to get this thing right.”

His wife came into the room then and saw him standing drumming his fingers on the top of the piano. “What’s the matter, Peter?” she asked anxiously.

“I’ll be darned if I know,” he answered, with a weary shake of his head. “Everything was going beautifully until I stopped to have that coffee. Now I’m missing something. I should have worked straight through.”

His wife turned away. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she said in a small voice.

“Oh, honey, it’s not your fault. It’s just a case of nerves. When I think of how important this thing is, I can’t concentrate on anything.”

“I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Ann said. She held a handkerchief to her nose.

Peter crossed the room in two quick strides and took her in his arms. With one finger he lifted her chin until he was able to smile into her eyes. “Smile,” he said. “Please.”

She smiled tremulously.

“That’s better. Please don’t pay any attention to what I say, honey, when I’m all worked up like this. It’s my fault, I know, but I get tied up in a knot when the music isn’t coming right. Am I forgiven?”

With a sob, Ann buried her face against his tweed jacket.

“It was all my fault, Peter,” she cried, the words coming through his coat in an indistinct murmur.

Peter patted her shoulders awkwardly.

“Well, let’s don’t argue about that,” he said with a grin. “The big thing that Mr. and Mrs. Hardwicke have to do is get this overture set right. I’m going to knock off for ten or fifteen minutes and maybe I’ll have an inspiration when I get back to work.”

Tink took advantage of the interruption to make strides.

“Listen, Jing,” he said urgently, “you’ve no idea how beautiful the park is at this time of day. I can’t describe it to you, you’ve got to see it for yourself.”

“But I can’t,” Jing said, for the fifth time. She glanced apprehensively down the keyboard where her three companions were gossiping together in a tight little circle.

“They’re shocked enough as it is,” she said, “and besides I have to go to work when the music starts. There’s no one to take my place.”

Tink frowned and rested his chin in his hand. For fully a minute he remained thinking, then he leaped to his feet with a shout.

“I’ve got it,” he cried. “Nastee can take your place for a half hour or so. He catches on to things in a hurry.” Nastee who had been listening glumly to the discussion raised his head and stared at Tink with cynical amusement.

“What makes you think I will?” he sneered.

“Oh, he couldn’t,” Jing said hastily. “We’ve already caused enough trouble with the music this afternoon. We can’t mix things up anymore.”

“Nastee wouldn’t mix things up,” Tink said with fine assurance. “He has a very musical nature. Anyway, it will only be for a few minutes. Please.”

“Well—” Jing glanced timidly at her companions, “if it’s only for a few minutes—”

“Fine,” Tink cried. “Come on, Nastee, be a good sport.”

Nastee’s face was thoughtful, but sly lights lurked in his little eyes.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’m not such a bad guy, after all.”

“Wonderful!” Tink said gleefully. “You see, Jing, it’s all set.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Jing said, “it really isn’t right.” She glanced doubtfully at Nastee. “Will you do your best to follow the music? It isn’t terribly difficult.”

“Sure,” Nastee said. “I’ll do my best.”

After another second of hesitation, Jing flung her streaming hair back with a toss of her head and sprang lightly to the top of the piano beside Tink.

“All right,” she said, “but only for a little while.”

Hand-in-hand they leaped to the window cord and swung to the window. With a tinkling laugh they were gone.

When Peter returned to the piano a half hour later, he noticed that the window facing the Park was open again. He closed it automatically, too absorbed with his musical problems to worry about trifles.

He flexed his fingers nervously and drew a deep breath. Then he struck the opening chord of the overture. As the sound swelled up from the piano he jerked his hands away as if the keys were suddenly red-hot.

Shaken, he listened in horror to the hideously sour chord that lingered in the room like a bad odor. A feverish light of desperation gleamed in his eye.

Never had he produced music like this.

Summoning his courage he attacked the piano again, striving mightily to infuse his composition with melody and harmony, but each succeeding chord was more objectionable than the last.

Everything was wrong! The melody was sour, the rhythm was jerky, the harmony was a travesty, and the complete score seemed suddenly an uninspired hodge-podge of din, discord and dissonance.

“What’s got into it!” Peter cried, burying his face in his hands. “It’s horrible, it’s sour, it’s all wrong!”

In desperation he leaped to his feet and scooped up the sheets of music in his hands. Trembling in every muscle he glared at them as if they were directly responsible for his predicament.

“Damn it!” he shouted. “What’s the matter?”

Ann appeared in the doorway, her face white.

“Darling, what’s wrong? Is anything the matter?”

Peter clasped his fist to his forehead with a moan.

“Is anything the matter?” he shouted. “No, everything’s dandy! Everything’s fine!”

Waving the crumpled sheets of music over his head he strode to the middle of the room, his face flushed with helpless rage.

“It isn’t necessary to shout at me,” Ann said quietly. “Maybe you’d better lie down awhile. You’re upset.”

“That’s it,” Peter said breathing heavily, “I’m just upset. The whole damned score is a stinking mess and Hummert would have to be a mad man to think of using it, so I’m upset. That’s all, upset. I discover after eight years of work that I can’t write music that makes sense, so I’m upset. I’m not irritated, I’m not angry, I’m not going stark raving mad, I’m just a little bit upset. You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”

“Please, Peter,” Ann said. Her lower lip trembled. “You’ve never talked like this to me before.”

“That,” Peter said in a strangled voice, “was because I was never upset before. Now, as you have pointed out so brilliantly, I’m upset. I’m liable to say anything.”

Ann stared at him wordlessly for an instant, then with a muffled sob she turned and ran into the tiny bedroom. She returned a moment later with her hat and coat on.

Peter looked at her and the color suddenly drained from his face.

“So you’re walking out,” he said bitterly. “All right, go ahead. You’re doing the smartest thing in the world. I’m not worth sticking to.”

With a sudden vicious gesture he tore the sheets of music in two and flung them into the air.

“There goes nothing,” he said. “Just the remains of the final flop effort of my illustrious career as a composer of rotten music.”

Ann looked at him steadily for an instant as if she were trying to memorize his features. Then she turned and left the room.

Peter glared helplessly after her and viciously kicked a torn sheet of music into the air. It settled quietly, forlornly to the carpet.

With an oath he grabbed a bottle of Scotch from a table and strode into the bedroom, kicking the door shut with an angry bang.

After an idyllic hour in the park, sunning themselves on a toadstool and chummily discussing life and its problems, Tink and Jing returned to the apartment.

The appalling scene that met their eyes completely shocked them from their complacently contented mood.

Torn sheets of music were strewn about the floor and over the entire apartment brooded a dismal silence.

The three chord girls were crouched in terror on top of the mantel clock, their eyes wide with fright. Nastee was stretched comfortably on the keys of the piano, his impish face adorned with a sly, mischievous smile.

“Oh!” Jing gasped faintly. “Something terrible has happened.”

Tink stared apprehensively at Nastee’s recumbent figure. There was something in his smirking, triumphant smile that caused him considerable uneasiness.

“Oh,” Jing wailed, “I knew I shouldn’t have left.”

Her three companions crouched together on top of the clock, and in fearful, drama-charged whispers, related all that had occurred while Tink and Jing had been away.

Jing turned white.

“Oh, this is terrible,” she whispered. Turning impulsively to Tink, she cried, “You must do something. You simply must!”

Tink patted her shoulder and glared accusingly at Nastee.

“You see the trouble you’ve caused,” he said.

“Sure,” Nastee said smugly. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. Boy!”

“Oh!” Jing cried. “Did you cause all this trouble on purpose?”

Nastee stretched luxuriously. He was enjoying himself thoroughly.

“Certainly,” he replied. “It wasn’t hard either. All I had to do was trip the girls when they’d dance past me. It sure played the devil with the music.”

“Oh,” Jing said faintly. The magnitude and callousness of Nastee’s prank left her breathless. She turned imploringly to Tink.

“What are you going to do?”

Tink scratched his head. What a fine mess!

“I’ll think of something,” he promised. But his voice was lacking its customary cheery assurance.

“You’ve got to,” Jing said frantically. “If this work isn’t finished on time it’ll be all my fault. I’ll never be given another chance.”

She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

Tink shifted uneasily from one foot to another, appalled by this emotional outburst.

“All right, I’ll do something,” he said.

He sat down and screwed his forehead into a frown. This situation was a lulu. He racked his brain for several minutes before he reached two conclusions. The composition would never be finished unless the composer was prompted to return to work. The composer would never return to work unless his wife returned to him, and domestic harmony was restored. Those two things were obvious. Therefore it only remained to get the composer and his wife back together.

That was all, but that was plenty!

He stood up and nervously chewed on a piece of thread. The first thing that had to be done was to prevent the composer’s wife from leaving the apartment house and disappearing into the trackless maze of Manhattan. If she got out of the immediate vicinity they might never be able to get her back on time.

He turned grimly to Nastee and pointed a determined finger at him.

“You’re going to stop the girl from leaving this building. She can’t have gotten out of the lobby yet. You’re responsible for this entire mess and I intend to see that you help undo some of the damage.”

Nastee grinned wickedly at him. “I’ll stop her,” he said, “but that don’t do any good. I’ve got things scrambled to the point where you can never straighten them out.”

With a satisfied chortle he swung himself down from the keyboard and scampered across the floor to the door.

“That’s the first step,” Tink said. He turned to Jing. “You get your girls together and pick up these torn sheets of music. Then find some glue and put it all back into shape.”

“All right,” Jing said, “but what are we going to do about the composer?”

“That,” said Tink, “is my job.” One of the girls from the clock said:

“He took a bottle of whisky with him to the bedroom.”

Tink looked nervously at the closed bedroom door, then he squared his shoulders.

“I’ll handle him, all right,” he said. Jing smiled tremulously at him.

“I know you will,” she said.

Tink wished that he shared her confidence. Intervening in the affairs of humans was ticklish enough, but when a quart of whisky had to be considered in his calculations, the situation assumed the precarious qualities of a juggled box of dynamite.

Drawing a deep breath he slid down the lamp to the floor and advanced toward the bedroom. Jing, on the window-sill, waved encouragement to him as he sallied forth to battle.

He entered the room by the simple expedient of rolling under the half inch crack provided by the slightly warped door. Inside he studied the scene carefully, and what he saw did not particularly encourage him.

The young composer was sprawled in a chair beside the bed with the bottle of Scotch within convenient reach. It was apparent from the opened bottle, and his flushed face that he was seeking the solace of Bacchus.

Tink sat down on the floor and cupped his chin in his hands. This situation required delicacy and tact. He studied the composer carefully and thoughtfully for several minutes.

It was evident from the young man’s face, he decided, that he regretted his actions, but his pride was preventing him from making the overtures that would effect a happy reconciliation. A bad thing, Tink thought gloomily. Finally he stood and climbed up the spread to the top of the bed. From there he leaped to the top of the dresser. A plan was already forming in his head.

Not particularly original, he realized, but still it was worth trying.

He scurried about the dresser top until he found what he was looking for, an ordinary hairpin. Hoisting it to his shoulders he sprang back to the bed and ran along the edge until he was within a foot of where the composer was sitting.

Then, using all his strength, he threw the hairpin into the air. It landed with a faint metallic plink! on the arm of the composer’s chair and bounced to the floor.

Startled, the composer looked around and then glanced down to the floor where the hairpin lay gleaming at his feet. He picked it up and stared at it. Then his fingers tightened on the pin crushing it out of shape. An expression of pain flitted over his features as he stared blankly, unseeingly at the pin in his hand.

Tink watched hopefully. Maybe that reminder of his wife would soften him up and melt away his stubborn pride.

For several seconds Peter Hardwicke tensed in his chair, then he slumped back and the pin fell from his hand to the floor. With that same hand he reached for the Scotch bottle.

Tink shook his head disconsolately. No soap.

He returned to the dresser top and began prowling around.

For several minutes he searched unavailingly. Then, next to a make-up box, he found an atomizer of perfume. He stared at the bulb and hose leading to the bottle and a smile curved his lips.

If anything would do the trick — this was it.

The bulb was taller than he, but after several attempts he managed to crawl onto its round, soft surface and balance himself there. This wasn’t going to be easy, he realized uneasily.

He waited until the jelly-like surface settled under his feet, then he leaped high in the air, jerking his knees under his chin. Descending, he kicked downward with all his might.

But something had happened to his timing. Instead of hitting the bulb flush, he struck its sloping side. The results of this change of procedure were just short of disastrous. Fortunately a jar of soft, filmy powder was next to the atomizer, and Tink’s surprised body bounced from the bulb into this cushioned receptacle.

The powder closed over his body in a billowing, cloying wave, burying him completely. When he struggled up, choking and gasping, he was thoroughly covered with white, persimmon-flavored talcum.

And Tink despised persimmon. In spite of this and his ignominious nosedive, he was not ready to admit defeat. Undaunted he emerged from the powder bowl and climbed to the top of the atomizer bulb.

He was, however, more careful this time. Instead of leaping into the air like a ballet dancer he contented himself with bouncing gently on the rubber surface of the bulb.

The results were less spectacular but more effective.

His light pressure on the bulb sprayed a thin, delicate stream of perfume into the air. The tiny globules of perfume hung in the air like motes on a hot day, then gradually drifted downward.

Peter Hardwicke raised his face suddenly from his hands and there was a wild, tormented look in his eyes. He stared desperately about the room.

“Good God!” he muttered. “I’m losing my mind. I thought she was standing beside me.”

Tink worked harder on the atomizer bulb, pumping the delicate aroma until it thoroughly permeated the room.

He’s weakening, he thought exultantly.

But Tink weakened before Peter Hardwicke did. Panting and limp, he was forced to cease his heroic efforts a few minutes later.

The young composer was still holding out. His hands were clenched before him and the knuckles were straining white, but he made no move to leave.

Tink regarded him disgustedly. Nothing seemed to avail against his steely stubbornness.

He felt a moment of panic as he realized how much was hanging in the balance. Jing was depending on him to straighten this thing out. What Nastee was doing, he had no idea. The thought of Nastee caused him to clench his fists bitterly. If he had known any real swear words he would have used them without hesitation.

But he couldn’t give up now. He tramped moodily about the dresser top until he was forced to the realization that he had exhausted its possibilities.

Then he explored the rest of the room. Finally he came to the closet. The door was slightly ajar and he inspected, without any great enthusiasm, the few miscellaneous garments hanging there.

They didn’t suggest anything to him so he climbed a bath robe rope to the upper regions of the closet where he saw two shelves.

On one shelf was a bottle of Scotch. Tink wrinkled his nose distastefully at it and continued upward. On the second shelf he made an important discovery. A loose cloth bag with wooden handles had been shoved back against the wall of the closet, obviously in an attempt to conceal its presence.

Tink looked inside the bag and he laughed out loud. His tinkling chuckle was, for the first time in an hour, completely carefree and joyous. For he knew his problems were over.

It would take a little manipulating but that was a minor matter. In fact it only took him two minutes to make the necessary preparations inside the closet.

Still, there was one job left that was rather ticklish. He had to discover some way to prompt the young composer to open the closet door.

But now that Tink was on the right track this obstacle seemed a simple matter. His confidence and assurance returned, bringing with them his characteristic ingenuity.

Popping out of the clothes closet he scampered under the bed and climbed quickly to the table top where the Scotch bottle was placed.

How to make the young man walk across the room and open the closet door? Tink thought he had it.

He waited patiently until the composer reached for the Scotch, then with all his strength shoved against the bottle.

The bottle swayed slightly, the composer’s hand missed the neck by a fraction of an inch and, with another shove from Tink, the bottle toppled from the table to the floor with a splintering crash.

“Damn!” Peter Hardwicke said disgustedly.

For a moment he stared broodingly at the bottle without moving a muscle, and Tink’s heart hammered despairingly.

Maybe it wouldn’t work after all!

A sigh of relief escaped his lips when the composer finally stood up and walked to the closet for another bottle of Scotch.

Everything was going to be okay now. Leaning comfortably against the Scotch shot glass, Tink waited happily for developments. A cheerful, expectant smile was on his lips.

Wouldn’t Jing be proud of him!

Nastee felt little enthusiasm for the scene he was witnessing. Mrs. Ann Hardwicke was checking out at the apartment desk and he was finding the whole thing a trifle boring.

“I’ll send someone for my things,” Mrs. Ann Hardwicke was saying to the desk clerk.

The young clerk was discreetly curious.

“Naturally, we’re sorry you’re leaving,” he said. “Has the service been satisfactory?”

“It’s not that,” Ann said. “It’s — something else.”

Her voice was miserable.

Nastee leaned against an ink-well on the desk and yawned. Tink had told him to stop this girl from leaving, but why should he? Tink was getting too high and mighty lately. This would show him he wasn’t so clever.

At that moment a heavy set, florid faced man bustled up to the desk. He was well dressed and had the nervous air of impatience that stamps self-important people.

“Boy!” he snapped to the desk clerk, “I’m in a hurry.”

He pulled out a heavily stuffed wallet and laid it on the desk while he fished in his vest pocket for a pen.

The wallet lay on the desk, almost touching Ann’s open purse. Nastee looked at the two objects for an instant with contemplative eyes. Then he chuckled mischievously. A golden opportunity!

Ann thanked the clerk for his kindness and walked away, trying desperately to hold back the tears.

She was half way across the lobby when she heard an angry bellow behind her. Turning she saw a fat, important looking man striding toward her, waving his arms excitedly.

The man caught her arm and dragged her forcibly back to the desk.

“I saw you,” he shouted. “You can’t pull your tricks on me, sister.”

“Please,” Ann said, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Don’t gimme that stuff,” the fat man cried. “You stole my wallet. Somebody call the police.”

“I did no such thing!” Ann said hotly.

The desk clerk looked his pained embarrassment.

“Please,” he said. “We can settle this matter quietly. Mrs. Hardwicke, I know you didn’t take this gentleman’s wallet, but if you would let us look through your purse it would prove your innocence.”

“Why, certainly,” Ann said.

She opened her purse and her knees began to tremble. A man’s wallet was lying among her make-up and letters and change.

“Oh!” she said faintly. She was too terrified to do anything but stare at the incriminating wallet.

“You see?” the fat man cried triumphantly. He snatched his wallet from the purse.

“It’s — some mistake,” Ann said helplessly.

“I’ll say it was, sister,” he snapped. “You’ll have time to regret it, too. The cops are always happy to catch one of you hotel thiefs.”

“I’m not a thief,” Ann said, starting to cry. “I live here with my husband.”

“That’s a hot one, sister,” the man said. “Wouldn’t care to take me up to your husband, would you?”

Ann sniffled miserably.

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said in a muffled voice. She couldn’t crawl to Peter now that she was in trouble. She started crying harder.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” the man snapped. “You’re lying from the start to finish. And don’t think those crocodile tears are going to help.”

“They’re not c — croc — odile tears,” Ann said, between sobs.

“Mrs. Hardwicke,” the desk clerk said, “I think it would be wise to take this man up to see your husband.”

“Your darn tootin’,” the man said. “If you’ve got a husband I want to see him. Come on.”

He dragged Ann to the elevator and the desk clerk followed, distraught.

Nastee lay on the desk blotter, weak with laughter. It had been the funniest thing he had seen in years...

Peter Hardwicke jerked open the closet door of the bedroom and was almost hit on the head by the heavy knitting bag which fell from the top shelf. He picked it up slowly. One string of yarn had been tied to the inside doorknob, so that when he opened the door it had pulled the bag from the shelf.

With fingers that suddenly trembled he opened the bag and lifted out several half-finished tiny garments. Under a ball of bright blue wool he saw a pair of knitted boots, about two inches long.

He stared dazedly at the knitted baby clothes, his face whitening. Remorse flooded over him.

“The poor kid,” he choked. “And I drove her away.”

Feverishly he stuffed the garments back into the knitting bag and grabbed his coat from the closet. He banged out of the room like a madman.

Tink smiled contentedly. Things would straighten out now. Whistling merrily he jumped to the bed and bounced to the floor.

Peter Hardwicke was striding toward the living room door when an imperative, angry knock sounded. He jerked open the door. Ann was standing there, between an angry looking fat man and the desk clerk. Her eyes were red from crying.

The fat man stepped forward importantly.

“Look here, mister,” he began, but he got no farther.

Peter shoved him out of the way and grabbed his wife by the shoulders.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said roughly.

Ann started crying again as Peter’s arms went around her hungrily.

“Just a minute,” the fat man broke in angrily. “Your wife tried to steal my wallet. What are you going to do about it?”

It took several seconds for the import of this remark to sink into Peter’s mind. When it did he took Ann by the shoulders and gently moved her out of the way. Then he stared thoughtfully at the heavy set, red-faced man.

“What am I going to do about it?” he repeated softly. “Just this. If you aren’t out of my sight in three seconds I will turn your life insurance policy into a claim. Do you follow me?”

The fat man got the general drift.

“Now, listen Buddy,” he said uneasily, “I—”

“One!” Peter said firmly.

“But—”

“Two!”

The fat man turned and ran. When Peter said ‘three’ his padded posterior was disappearing around the corner of the corridor.

Peter put his arm about Ann’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he said gaily. “I’ve got an overture to write. Now that there are three people interested in it I can’t fail.”

Ann squealed as Peter swung her up in his arms and strode into the apartment.

Tink and Jing had watched this scene with shining eyes.

“Oh, Tink,” Jing said, “you’re wonderful.”

Nastee appeared in the doorway, an unpleasant scowl on his face.

“Bah!” he said. “Everything I do turns out wrong.”

Tink looked at him thoughtfully.

“Maybe this will be a lesson to you,” he said.

“Bah!” said Nastee.

Jing was humming softly to herself.

“I think,” she said sweetly, “that Nastee needs a more forceful kind of lesson. Don’t you agree, Tink?”

Tink looked at her and nodded.

Orchestral Hall was crowded to capacity with smartly dressed men and women. From their vantage point on the edge of the conductor’s podium, Tink and Jing breathlessly regarded the glittering scene.

The orchestra was tuning up in the pit and the sound of the experimental scrapings drifted through the air, as exciting as sparks in a breeze.

In the expectant audience Jing picked out the young composer, Peter Hardwicke, and his wife. They were sitting together, hand-in-hand, occasionally looking happily at each other.

“I hope the overture is good,” Tink said.

“It is,” Jing said, “I know.”

Nastee was present also, sullen and ungracious, sitting glumly by himself a few inches from Tink and Jing. His little face was screwed up unpleasantly and Tink realized uneasily that more devilment was being plotted behind those surly features.

“Remember, Nastee,” he said worriedly, “you’ve promised not to start any trouble here.”

“Bah!” Nastee said.

“Nastee,” Jing said suddenly, “you must stay on this side of the podium with us. If you cross to the other you may cause trouble.”

Nastee leered at her, then stood up and walked defiantly to the opposite side of the podium.

“I’ll do what I like,” he called back nastily.

“Jing,” Tink sighed, “that’s not the way to handle Nastee. When you tell him not to do anything, that’s the first thing he’ll do.”

Jing smiled to herself.

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

A thunder of applause broke from the audience then as the conductor, a stocky, flowing haired genius, made his appearance and marched to the podium. He acknowledged the ovation with a brief bow. Turning, he faced the orchestra and drew himself up to his full height.

Then, with the traditional gesture for attention, he rapped sharply on the podium with his baton.

All three of the sharp blows landed squarely on Nastee’s head, knocking him flat on his stomach, dazed, breathless and aching all over like a sore tooth.

The sounds of his outraged, wailing shrieks were completely drowned out by the crashing chords of the overture.

Tink looked at Nastee’s sprawled, dazed figure, and he began to laugh uncontrollably. He laughed until tears came to his eyes and then he turned weakly to Jing.

“You’re wonderful,” he said. “You knew what would happen to Nastee at the other end of the podium, didn’t you?”

“That’s why I told him not to go down there,” Jing said primly. “Of course I wasn’t sure he’d get hit, but the chance was too good to miss. I felt just a little bit guilty, but I’m sure the lesson will do him good.”

Tink stared at the elfinly beautiful girl in helpless admiration.

“Gee,” he said, “your wonderful.”

Nastee raised his aching head weakly.

“Bah!” he said.