Canapés for the Kitties by Marian Babson Page A

I asked.” Professor Borley held up his hand as though quelling an unruly classroom. “I think I’ll settle for the venison and wild mushroom.”
    â€œI intend to have a bite of everything,” Rhylla Montague announced. “This spread must have cost dear Dorian a fortune and the least we can do is take advantage of it so that he can charge it up to research.”
    â€œDear Rhylla, how kind of you to be so concerned about my finances,” Dorian murmured. For a moment, their glances crossed like swords.
    â€œWell,” Rhylla said, “are you going to stand there like a human torchère all evening, or are you going to light the bonfire?”
    â€œOh, I’m going to light it.” Dorian swept a glance around the terrace. “In fact, I think it’s time. Jack,” he called, “are you ready to. record the great moment?”
    â€œYeah. Sure. Coming.” Jack brought up his camera in a reflex action as Dorian flourished his torch, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
    â€œI’d better go with them,” Karla said. “It’s supposed to be the record of my year. I mean, our year. One of us ought to be in the picture.” She hurried away to join the group following Dorian down the steps and onto the lawn.
    â€œI wouldn’t want to get too close to that bonfire myself.” Rhylla set her drink down on the stone balustrade and surveyed the scene below. “It looks as though it might collapse if someone sneezed on it.”
    â€œDorian should stick to his level of competence,” Macho said. “He’s just about adequate as a writer; he has no flair at all for carpentry or building.”
    â€œActually, that bonfire is quite well constructed.” Gordie Crane joined them. “I built most of it myself. It only looks so ramshackle because he allowed the local children to come along and throw their contributions onto it. That’s why it has all those bits sticking out in odd places.”
    â€œChildren?” Rhylla looked around nervously. “Where?”
    â€œOh, his hospitality didn’t extend to inviting them to the party.” There was a trace of bitterness in Gordie’s voice, perhaps because he wasn’t a guest himself. “He fobbed them off by saying that their parents would have their own plans for private parties, but they must be sure to look out of their windows when the bonfire was going well and they’d be able to see the guy burn.”
    â€œAll heart, our Dorian,” Rhylla said.
    â€œI hope he has that dummy firmly anchored in place. It would ruin his evening if it slid to the ground without catching fire.” Macho sounded as though he hoped the opposite; it would not ruin his evening if Dorian’s plans went awry.
    â€œIt will remain in place, I assure you.” Gordie seemed to resent the implied slur on his handiwork. As well he might. His expertise in all practical fields was the reason he was here. One of the truly useful people Dorian had collected, he was able to build bookcases, solve electrical problems, fix the plumbing and deal with all the other mechanical faults that baffled the rest of them. (“Invaluable,” Dorian had said. “He can even mend broken-down typewriters. If the part isn’t available anymore, he’ll hand-craft it himself.” To writers nursing along obsolete machines to avoid the day they had to grapple with new technology, it was the major point in Gordie’s favour.) Dorian had used his influence to have Gordie installed in the basement flat at Coffers Court as resident caretaker, on call for any emergencies among the rest of the literary inhabitants of Brimful Coffers. Gordie’s only flaw was that he cherished ambitions to be a writer himself and imagined that living in their midst would help him achieve his goal. It was a delusion Dorian encouraged for fear of losing the services of such a peerless