"Break up the wooden Indian on the Flip."
"I thought that was Judge Crater."
"I thought it was Kris Kringle," Lennox said somberly, fingering his neck. Suddenly he asked: "Where's Mason? Dead?"
"Went under the cellar. Came up the other side. Went back to his dressing room and doing very well I hear."
Lennox grunted thrice in anguish. Cooper eyed him solemnly in the mirror. His face wore a permanent expression of perplexity. He was tall, compact, with strong hands, high cheekbones and deep-set narrow eyes. He had the well-scrubbed Princeton look, and as a matter of fact had been a big wheel in Triangle shows before he broke into television. He was a mediocre song-writer and a magnificent rehearsal pianist, which is a high art unappreciated outside the business.
Cooper and Lennox had been close friends for over three years, and for the past ten months Sam had been sharing Lennox's apartment. When Lennox invited him, Sam had moved in his grand piano, seventeen copper pots, one hundred and thirteen record albums, a complete Hi-Fi sound system, two Siamese cats, and a mink-dyed skunk. He'd said: "Gosh, fellows, let's room together all through school." They were still together, despite the skunk.
"Great God on echo!" Lennox said after a long pause, "I think I'm on my way to the booby hatch."
"Oh? Why the hell did you go charging down there? For Mig?"
"I was playing the scene."
"Rover Boys to the rescue. Which were you? Fun-loving Tom?"