children, and everyone included Abbie and Barnaby and Fredericka's father. He looked, looked again incredulously, and started forward. Abbie clutched the book to her and begged it to help. And it did, in the simplest way it knew.
Abbie's father stopped short, blinking. And the director said, "Where are they? Oh, they've gone. Good riddance."
"What's up?" hissed Fredericka.
"We're invisible, I
think,
" said Abbie. "To
them,
I mean." (For they could still see each other perfectly well.)
"And now," said the director, "where was I?" Then he sank into a chair. "It doesn't matter. I can't go on. Those kids have shattered my mood. Might as well break for dinner now. Everybody be back in one hour."
And the crowd started filing out the doors.
Fredericka now suggested that there were all manner of interesting things five invisible children could find to do in a deserted television studio. "We could broadcast from coast to coast. I'll do my scarf dance."
But Barnaby told her sternly that they'd caused enough trouble already, and they'd better make themselves scarce from now on till the actual program began.
So the five children left the studio and wandered out into the street, which happened to be Broadway.
New York City has a magic of its own, even when you are not a child and not invisible. When you
are
, it is even better. And John and Susan and Barnaby and Abbie and Fredericka now tasted it to the full.
They pressed unseen through the madding crowd, causing people to cry, "Who're you pushing?" to other people who hadn't been pushing one bit. They rode the subway to Forty-second Street, changed trains, and rode back again. They walked a block across town and gazed upon the topless towers of Rockefeller Center. They entered a doughnut shop and invisibly ate doughnuts and paid for them with invisible hands until quite an interesting panic spread among the city's other doughnut-fanciers.
During the stroll, Abbie was with them in body but not in spirit. She was too busy watching all the clocks they passed and waiting for it to be time to get back to the studio.
Eventually it was, and the five invisible forms entered the theater part and secured seats in the front row. When people came and sat on their invisible laps they squirmed and made their invisible knees as knobbly as possible till the people moved away, saying, "Wouldn't you think the television company could afford
springs
? I'm going to write to Mr. Minow!"
And at last the drums rolled and the spotlights beamed and the grand super-spectacular transcontinental variety show began.
During the early moments Abbie's father was not conspicuous. In the opening number he stood in the back row. In the next two songs he was part of a group that sang vocal backgrounds out of range of the camera. Halfway through the program he carried on a tree that was part of the scenery. He did this so well and so neatly that Abbie wanted to applaud, but she restrained herself. The time would come.
And it did, with the entrance of the rock 'n' roll star, whose number was to be the finale of the show. He began his song, and Abbie's father and the three other men danced onto the stage behind him. Abbie waited till her father was right next to the star, so his face would surely show in the camera. Then she looked at the book.
"Now," she told it.
The next moment, on the great stage and in the living rooms of fifty million television fans throughout the country, a surprising scene took place.
The rock 'n' roll star squirmed and writhed, as was his habit, but no sound fell from his lips. The four singers swayed behind him and their mouths made words, but no sound came from three of
them,
either.
Only Abbie's father's voice rang out over the nation, sounding richer and truer than ever.
"Chickadee tidbit, chickadee tidbit,
Skedaddle skedaddle pow!"
he sang. And again,
"Chickadee tidbit, chickadee tidbit,
Skedaddle skedaddle pow!"
A look of surprise appeared on his face as he realized
Abbie's father stopped short, blinking. And the director said, "Where are they? Oh, they've gone. Good riddance."
"What's up?" hissed Fredericka.
"We're invisible, I
think,
" said Abbie. "To
them,
I mean." (For they could still see each other perfectly well.)
"And now," said the director, "where was I?" Then he sank into a chair. "It doesn't matter. I can't go on. Those kids have shattered my mood. Might as well break for dinner now. Everybody be back in one hour."
And the crowd started filing out the doors.
Fredericka now suggested that there were all manner of interesting things five invisible children could find to do in a deserted television studio. "We could broadcast from coast to coast. I'll do my scarf dance."
But Barnaby told her sternly that they'd caused enough trouble already, and they'd better make themselves scarce from now on till the actual program began.
So the five children left the studio and wandered out into the street, which happened to be Broadway.
New York City has a magic of its own, even when you are not a child and not invisible. When you
are
, it is even better. And John and Susan and Barnaby and Abbie and Fredericka now tasted it to the full.
They pressed unseen through the madding crowd, causing people to cry, "Who're you pushing?" to other people who hadn't been pushing one bit. They rode the subway to Forty-second Street, changed trains, and rode back again. They walked a block across town and gazed upon the topless towers of Rockefeller Center. They entered a doughnut shop and invisibly ate doughnuts and paid for them with invisible hands until quite an interesting panic spread among the city's other doughnut-fanciers.
During the stroll, Abbie was with them in body but not in spirit. She was too busy watching all the clocks they passed and waiting for it to be time to get back to the studio.
Eventually it was, and the five invisible forms entered the theater part and secured seats in the front row. When people came and sat on their invisible laps they squirmed and made their invisible knees as knobbly as possible till the people moved away, saying, "Wouldn't you think the television company could afford
springs
? I'm going to write to Mr. Minow!"
And at last the drums rolled and the spotlights beamed and the grand super-spectacular transcontinental variety show began.
During the early moments Abbie's father was not conspicuous. In the opening number he stood in the back row. In the next two songs he was part of a group that sang vocal backgrounds out of range of the camera. Halfway through the program he carried on a tree that was part of the scenery. He did this so well and so neatly that Abbie wanted to applaud, but she restrained herself. The time would come.
And it did, with the entrance of the rock 'n' roll star, whose number was to be the finale of the show. He began his song, and Abbie's father and the three other men danced onto the stage behind him. Abbie waited till her father was right next to the star, so his face would surely show in the camera. Then she looked at the book.
"Now," she told it.
The next moment, on the great stage and in the living rooms of fifty million television fans throughout the country, a surprising scene took place.
The rock 'n' roll star squirmed and writhed, as was his habit, but no sound fell from his lips. The four singers swayed behind him and their mouths made words, but no sound came from three of
them,
either.
Only Abbie's father's voice rang out over the nation, sounding richer and truer than ever.
"Chickadee tidbit, chickadee tidbit,
Skedaddle skedaddle pow!"
he sang. And again,
"Chickadee tidbit, chickadee tidbit,
Skedaddle skedaddle pow!"
A look of surprise appeared on his face as he realized
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