It's Wednesday.

Ten the Dinner Party

Late one night Chester Cricket was very busy inside the newsstand. As soon as the Bellinis went home, he hopped out of the matchbox and began to clean up. First he pushed in the box so its sides were even and then slid it over beside the alarm clock. Next he pulled a piece of Kleenex out of the Kleenex box and dragged it back and forth across the shelf. When the shelf was dusted, he picked up the tissue in his two front legs and polished the cricket cage so its bars shone. He wiped off the glass in the front of the alarm clock and the radio too until he could see his own reflection. The dial of the clock was luminous and it shed a very soft green light. Chester wanted everything to be perfect on this particular evening. There was going to be a party. It was exactly two months since Chester had arrived in New York, and the three animals wanted to celebrate the anniversary. Nothing too formal, you understand—just a little dinner for everyone. Tucker Mouse had volunteered to let them use the drain pipe, but Chester didn’t want to eat amid all the waste paper and rubbish his friend had collected. So after many conferences, they resolved on the newsstand. It was sheltered, and quite big enough, and the radio could provide nice background music. Tucker Mouse jumped up beside Chester. “How is the food coming, Tucker?” asked the cricket. Tucker had been put in charge of refreshments. “Hic hic hic,” laughed Tucker Mouse, rubbing his front feet together, “wait till I tell you.” He lifted up one foot. “I have: two chunks liverwurst, one slice ham, there pieces bacon—from a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich—some lettuce and tomato—from said sandwich—whole-wheat, rye, and white crusts, a big gob cole slaw, two squares from a Hershey chocolate bar, the end of an OH! Henry candy bar—with nuts!—and now comes the climax.” Tucker paused. “Iced soft drinks!” “How did you get the ice?” asked Chester. “Wait, I’ll tell you,” said Tucker. “All day I’ve been hiding by the lunch counter. When the soda jerks made a Coke I grabbed the ice they spilled, which I then took to the drain pipe. There,” he went on with especial pride, “it happens I have a heatproof, insulated bag saved up for just such as occasion. I put in the ice, shut up the opening—we have ice! Nice, eh?” He sat back on his haunches and grinned at Chester. “Very nice,” said Chester. “Where have you got the drinks?” “in paper cuts,” said Tucker. “And no mixing of drinks either. For each kind of soft drink—another cup.” “That’s wonderful,” said the cricket with admiration. “Oh, it’s nothing really,” said Tucker, waving a foot. “I mean, it’s something—but nothing too much.” He looked around at the shelf and clock and everything. “You are to be congratulated on the cleanliness. Of course, it isn’t as important as food-getting, but to be clean is very nice too.” While they were talking, Harry Cat came in through the opening at the side of the newsstand. Chester hopped down, like a good host, to greet his new guest. “How was the concert?” he asked. Harry had been down to Washington Square to hear an open-air concert of chamber music. How you could play chamber music outdoors Chester didn’t understand—but it was New York and anything could happen. “Very good,” answered Harry. “But I don’t think the violinist played nearly as well as you do.” It made Chester very happy to hear that, but he had to turn away so Harry wouldn’t see him blush. “Harry, help me with the food,” said Tucker. He jumped down to the floor and scurried over to the drain pipe. The mouse and the cat put all the different courses over to one side with the soft drinks so everyone could just go up and help himself. It was buffet style. Tucker and Chester sat on the shelf and Harry, who was taller, sat on the stool. But his head was on a level with theirs. Tucker Mouse took great pride in cooling the soft drinks. There were four cups, one with Coca-Cola, one with Pepsi, one root beer, and the last orange pop. Tucker put a big piece of ice in each and then made a show of stirring them up with a straw he had found that afternoon. “Ah,” he sighed. “Where but in New York could a mouse have ice in his Coca-Cola?” “We should have music,” said Harry. He reached over and flicked on the radio. First they got news report. But that wouldn’t do for a party. Harry twisted the dial and went through a quiz show, an amateur hour, and a play about the Deep South before he got what he wanted. Music is very nice for a party because it gives you time to eat your fill without having to make conversation. Harry Cat was working on his second piece of Oh! Henry candy bar when he suddenly stopped munching and listened to the tune the radio was playing. His head began to sway from side to  side. “That’s my favorite song,” he said, beginning to hum along with it. “Sing it, Harry,” said Chester Cricket. “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” blurted out Tucker Mouse through a mouthful of bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. But Harry was in a party mood, so he cleared his throat and began: “When I’m calling youuuuuuuuuu Oooo-oooo-oooo Oooo-oooo-oooo—” Harry had a delightful yowl that went very well with the lyrics of the song. “You see what I told you?” groaned Tucker. Harry went right on, however: “Will you answer truuuuuu Oooo-oooo-oooo Oooo-oooo-oooo?” “Maybe we should turn back to the amateur hour,” said Tucker Mouse, helping himself to the Hershey bar. “I think Harry sings beautifully,” said Chester. “You sing now, Chester,” said Harry Cat. Secretly the cricket was very anxious to perform for them, but he had to have some encouragement first. He limbered his wings and said, “It’s not really singing, you know—“ “Singing, playing—who cares, as long as it doesn’t sound like Harry,” said Tucker Mouse. He slurped up the last of the orange soda and they all fell silent. It was well along in August by now, and just the time of the year that crickets all over the world like most. Chester hadn’t done nearly as much chirping as usual this summer because he was living in New York, but tonight he played to his heart’s content. He thought of his meadow and the stump, the brook and the old willow tree. The song swelled up from his wings and filled the newsstand. When it was over, Tucker and Harry applauded and congratulated Chester. “Now play us something we know,” suggested Harry Cat. “Well, I don’t know if I can,” said Chester. “All my songs are my own compositions.” “Listen to the radio and play what it does,” said Harry. He turned up the music. Chester cocked his head to one side. The radio was playing the “Blue Danube” waltz. When he had heard enough to memorize the melody, Chester joined in. And he played it perfectly! The cricket was such a natural musician that he not only chirped the tune—in a few minutes he was making up variations and spinning them out without ever losing the rhythm of the waltz. He found that by tilting his wings he could make the notes go higher or lower, just as he wanted. Chester got an ovation from his friends. Harry Cat, who had crept into the Metropolitan Opera House a few times and knew how people acted there, shouted, “Bravo, Chester! Bravo!” Of course after such a sample of his talent for imitating songs, his friends insisted that he keep on. And Chester was happy to oblige. There’s nothing like a good audience to encourage a performer. The next selection from the radio was a group of Italian folk songs. Chester picked out the different melodies and chirped them along with the orchestra. After the folk songs came a group of operatic arias. It was easier for Chester to play the ones written for tenors than the ones for sopranos, contraltos, and basses, but he did them all beautifully. Each time he stopped after singing a new piece, the animals shouted, “More! More! More!” So Chester went right on. Now came a South American rumba. The rhythm was very tricky and it took the cricket a few minutes to catch on to it, but once he had it, he never lost the beat. Chirping away, he sounded like a pair of lively castanets. “Imagine!” exclaimed Tucker Mouse, “he plays pop as well as classical.” Tucker was feeling very lively himself because of all the soda water he had swallowed. The South American tempo began to excite him. He jumped up and started to dance around the shelf. Harry Cat burst out laughing, but that didn’t bother Tucker. He was a carefree soul. “Chester can play—I can dance,” he panted. “We should go into vaudeville.” “If you danced as well as he played, you could,” said Harry. “So I’m just learning,” said Tucker, and threw himself into a wild twirl next to Papa Bellini’s pipe. He couldn’t see where he was going and he toppled over into the box of kitchen matches. The box flipped over. A shower of matches fell around the shelf and onto the cement floor. There were several yellow bursts and the sharp scratch that a match makes when it’s lit. most of them fell far enough away from the wooden walls so they could burn themselves out without danger. But one match, unluckily, struck right next to a pile of that morning’s newspapers. The spurt of flames it sent up lit the frayed edge of the papers and quickly spread over the whole bundle. “Watch out!” shouted Chester. Harry Cat leaped up to the shelf just in time to keep his tail from being burned. The cricket was the first to realize what had happened—and what was likely to happen if they didn’t put the fire out. “Get the Coca-Cola,” he said. “Pour it over.” “I drank it all,” shouted Tucker. “You would!” said Chester. Is there any ice?” Harry and Tucker dumped what was left in the insulated bag down on the flames. But it wasn’t enough. The fire sputtered, died down, and then flared up again, larger than ever. There was a pile of magazines on the very edge of the shelf, just above the fire. Harry strained and pushed and succeeded in toppling them over. They all peered over het edge to see if the fire was out. “Oh fine!” said Tucker. “She’s still burning and you blocked the hole to get out!” They were trapped. Harry and Tucker jumped down and started pulling away the magazines furiously. But the fire crept closer and they had to back away. “What a way to go,” said Tucker. “I should have stayed on Tenth Avenue.” For a moment Chester got panicky. But he forced his thoughts back into order and took stock of the situation. And an idea struck him. In one leap he jumped onto the alarm clock, landing right on the button that set off the alarm. The old clock began ringing so wildly it shook itself around the shelf in a mad dance. Chester hopped back to his friends. “Any alarm in a fire,” he said. They waited, crouched against the wall. On the opposite side of the stand the flames were lapping against the wood. Already the paint on it had begun to blister. Chester could hear voices outside the newsstand. Even at this hour there were always a few people in the station. Somebody said, “What’s that?” “I smell smoke,” said another. Chester recognized the voice. It was Paul, the conductor on the shuttle. There was a sound of footsteps running away, then running back again, and a hammering began. The newsstand shook all over. “Somebody get the other side,” said Paul. The cover was wrenched off. Clouds of smoke billowed up. The people standing around were astonished to see, through the fumes and glare of the fire, a cat, a mouse, and a cricket, running, jumping, to safety.