"Stage!" Toffee shrieked. "Isn't this the ladies' lounge? I saw all you girls coming in here, all undressed and everything, and I...! Oh, my gosh!"
Meanwhile, backstage, Marc was too busy watching his own troubles mount to notice Toffee's predicament.
"Also, Mr. Pillsworth," the policeman was saying with maddening deliberation, "there is a certain restaurant owner that would like to have words with you. Do you want to come along quietly, or shall we mix it up a little first?"
"Oh, no," Marc moaned. "Not now, officer. Can't you put all this aside for just a bit?"
The officer shook his head and grinned nastily at the sudden flash of fear in Marc's eyes. Had he known, however, the cause of Marc's fear, he might have been less flattered by it. Behind him a steel framed folding chair was floating swiftly upward, poising itself carefully over his head.
"No!" Marc yelled. "No!"
"It's nothing to get hysterical about," the cop laughed. "We'll treat you right...."
Marc started to yell again but his words were drowned out as the wooden bottom of the chair splintered noisily over the policeman's head. A moment later the policeman tumbled to the floor, rolled over once, and then began to slither weirdly, feet first, toward the darkness beyond a nearby screen of drapes.
"No, George!" Marc yelled. "Don't drag him away! Get him some water!"
George's voice echoed back from the vicinity of the policeman's ankles. "I guess I turned up just in time, eh?"