CHAPTER 8. T-BONE

SPENCER pats the death seat. One of the wooden pegs of the garrote slips from under the sun visor with a boing from the piano wire. Spencer tucks it back up, fumbling drunkenly.

"I am supposed to take the talented..." (he squints at the article) "...hair? The talented hair? Um, to the exhaustive Coventry Tennis Club for..." (pause, thinking hard) "...for his exhaustive Coventry tennissing lesson."

"Oh, you want Harvey, sir?" pipes the helpful young lad. "Everybody wants Harvey, believe me. And it's easy! He's right over there! The one toting the slide trombone!"

THE DIMINUTIVE MARVEL walks among his classmates. The latter are about what you'd expect: mini-pencil-necks with translucent skin from staying indoors their whole lives practicing.

 
 

BUT THE COVENTRY HEIR, on the other hand, is ruddy, a splendid specimen, with delicious heft to his bones and an appetizing sheen to his curly red hair and dimpled flesh.

The classmates carry measly violins and sissy piccolos; but this boy has a hale and hearty trombone, golden as he is.

Continued

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