After the show, lollipops were passed out to everybody and it was Free Time until lunch. Mommy stayed below to keep an eye on things and I herded the Uncles up to the conference room in the Tower.
Uncle Chub Boswell rapped the meeting to order. He paid me the standard compliment about how healthy and happy the Kids looked and what a fine job Ruth and I were doing here, then asked me to read the Annual Report.
Before I could get my papers in order, Pettigrew piped, "Mr. Chairman, I'd like to ask a few pertinent questions."
"All right, Petty. Make it brief."
"Thank you. I should like to ask—er, what was your name again?"
"Barnaby," I said. "Harry Barnaby. Just call me Daddy."
He glared my grin into oblivion. "Mr. Barnaby, I would like you to explain to me the purpose of this installation."
For some reason, the tone of his voice on the word "installation" infuriated me. "What the devil are you driving at?" I snapped.
There was a faint suggestion of a sneer on his pasty little face. "I'm interested in ascertaining, Mr. Barnaby, just how you justify the continued conduction of this perpetual circus and picnic for the mentally retarded, at tremendous expense to the taxpayers."