Perkins of Portland: Perkins The Great

by Ellis Parker Butler

I had hardly turned to my desk before my telephone bell rang. I slapped the receiver to my ear. It was Perkins!

“Pilly,” he said. “Pilly willy. Pilly willy winkum. Pilliwink! That's it. Pilliwink, Princess of. Write it down. The Princess of Pilliwink. Good-by.”

I hung up the receiver.

“That is the name of the play,” I mused. “Mighty good name, too. Full of meaning, like 'shout Zo-Zo' and 'Paskala' and—”

The bell rang again.

“Perkins's performers. Good-by,” came the voice of my great friend.

“Great!” I shouted, but Perkins had already rung off.

He came back in about half an hour with four young men in tow.

“Good idea,” I said, “male quartettes always take well.”

Perkins waved his hand scornfully. Perkins could do that. He could do anything, could Perkins. “Quartette? No,” he said, “the play.” He locked the office door, and put the key in his pocket. “The play is in them,” he said, “and they are in here. They don't get out until they get the play out.”