“How long do you want us to keep at this thing?” asked the laughing voice of Ned Newton. “I—oh, dear—whew—I can’t stand this much longer, Tom!” and he went off into another fit of merriment.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the wondering inventor.
“Oh, it’s my partner in the red suit!” chuckled Ned. “He’s cutting up such funny antics that I can’t dance or sing for laughing. How is it coming through?”
“I haven’t connected up yet,” Tom answered. “I will in a minute. I was talking to Koku. He’s hungry for fash.”
“For fash!” exclaimed Ned wonderingly.
“Yes. Don’t you remember those peculiar melons that had such a funny smell and taste? The giants were crazy about them.”
“Oh, yes,” Ned answered. “I’d forgotten all about them. But get on with the show. I happen to have a date with Helen to-night.”
“I’ll soon release you,” promised Tom. “So Mr. Damon is cutting loose, is he?”
“You ought to see him!” chuckled the other performer, and even then Tom caught, over the telephone, snatches of comic songs Mr. Damon was practicing—recollections of his amateur minstrel days.
“All right—get set!” advised the inventor. “I’m going to turn on the power now. Keep toward the middle of the stage, for I haven’t got a very wide screen and the focus is narrow. If you get too far to either side I may lose the image and can’t tell whether I’m getting you or not.”