I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said, "Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, looking like hungry cats at a mouse-hole."
The little guy nodded. "Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. Simon Beamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus."
I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn't say anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a fresh pitcher of thil on the table. Then I cleared my throat.
"What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish?"
Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. "I have independent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lighten the burden of life for those less fortunate...."
Bucky got red around the ears. "Just a minute," he murmured, and started to get up. I kicked him under the table.
"Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish."
He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamish ignored him. He went on, quietly,
"I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the most valuable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation of toil and boredom...."