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DROOZLE
_Droozle was probably the greatest writer in the world--any world!_
By FRANK BANTA
Jean Lanni could see that his girl friend, Judy Stokes, thought it wasthe lamest excuse she had ever heard. If your ballpoint pen won't writeas you want it to, your life doesn't stop, she probably was thinking.You just get yourself another pen--You don't call off a marriage....
Skeptically the girl with the long, golden red hair pointed at hisbreast pocket. "This Droozle I must see. And who's that other member ofthe partnership there beside him? An Eversharp pencil named Blackie?"
"No, that is the other end of Droozle. Permit me to introduce you."Blandly the tall, young artist slid Droozle from his breast pocket,straightened him from his U-shape and handed his twelve-inch pen to her.
"A snake!" she shrieked.
"What else?"
"Why, I thought those ruby eyes were jewels! I must have squeezed rightup against him when I kissed you," she cried indignantly.
"You did. I felt him squirm a little."
"Oh! And here I thought it was your heart beating wildly."
"Well, maybe it was. It does that sometimes."
"Let's try again. And this time hold your snake behind you." Thelong-legged girl stood on tiptoe to reach him.
"It _was_ your heart beating wildly," she decided a moment later. "Whichmakes me think you might not just be trying to get rid of me by a sillyexcuse."
"Believe me, I'm not," he urged. "Droozle is the key to all myfortunes."
"All right, tell me about it. But first tell me where in the universeyou got him."
"Oh, that was just after I graduated from art school. I was on my grandtour. We had an unexpected stopover at the Coffin planetary system. Idiscovered ballpoint snakes are the chief export of Coffin Two. When welifted ship, I had acquired my little puppy snake, Droozle."
"Is a puppy snake like a puppy dog?" she asked, fascinated. "I mean, dothey have their little domestic troubles, such as the calls of nature?"
"Oh, he was thoroughly pocket-broken before I acquired him. But he didlike his little jokes, and I learned to leave him curled up in acircular ashtray until maturity sobered him."
* * * * *
"Well, I should say! You drew sketches with him, didn't you tell me?"
He nodded. "At first he only had one color of ink--red--and if Isketched with him all day he would commence to look wretchedly anemic.He took two days to refill, normally. But I could use him again in onlyone day's time provided I didn't mind the top three-fourths of my penlaying on my arm."
"I hope his weight didn't get tiresome," she commiserated, holding inher amusement.
"I coped somehow," he answered sturdily. "Later he learned--after Isqueezed him on the liver a few times just to show him how--to switch toa lovely shade of ochre, which was delightful on pale green or pinkpaper. Why, what's the matter, Judy?"
"Go on," she choked. "Go go go!"
He beamed. "I write my letters with him too. Every day I wrote with him,first in red, and then in ochre to give him a rest. He seemed to love towrite more than to sketch. He would jump into my hand with tail happilypointed downward as I sat down to my writing desk. And when I later sawhis dark green stripes turning pastel and knew that anemia was imminent,and started to lay him down for a earned rest, he would stiffen himselfas if to say, 'Oh, come, come! I'm good for half a page yet!'"
"It sounds as though he was a willing worker, but I still can't see whyhis malfunction makes our marriage impossible."
"I haven't gotten to his career as a novelist yet. There lies the heartof the tragedy."
"Please proceed to the heart of the tragedy."
* * * * *
"It all began when I found him arched up one morning, writing byhimself--with difficulty, it is true. His first message to the worldwas, '_I hold that the supine viewpoint is seldom downward!_'"
"I don't see how he could stand up on end to write for very long, evenwith such a magnificent philosophy to bolster him."
"What a terrible pun," Jean groaned. "He couldn't stand up very long atfirst. But I saw he had talent. I gladly learned the skill of holdinghim upright in a relaxed manner so that he could express himself onpaper. In no time at all, he had written what was to be his first,sensational, best-selling shocker, _Naked Bellies in the Grass_."
"That does sound sensational."
"Not for snakes. He neglected to mention his characters were snakes. _IFang You Very Much_ followed swiftly afterward and was just assuccessful. Mothers were amused with its lispy title and got it for thechildren."
"Sounds like a story with some meat in it."
"Yes! Something you can get your teeth into. However, his next offering,_A Snake Pit Full of Love_, was by far the topper. It was banned inBoston."
"You haven't mentioned anything tragic so far," she observed. "In fact,you have made a pot of money."
"Right. After my snake had filed his income tax returns, we still hadenough money to purchase this house and to support us for a couple ofyears. The only trouble is, his royalties have stopped coming in andthat money is all used up. I still haven't been able to sell any of mylandscape paintings. So we haven't any income, and that's why you and Ican't marry for a long time yet--if ever!"
Her exquisite brows wrinkled with concentration. "I don't understand.Has Droozle written himself out?"
"Far from it," answered Jean, seating himself and parking Droozle on hisknee. "He's writing more than ever."
"The quality is gone, then?"
Jean shook his head. "No, he's writing superlatively."
"Then what _is_ the problem?" she asked, now thoroughly mystified.
"He's writing classics!" burst out Jean in baffled irritation. "He won'twrite anything else! Easily seeing the approaching catastrophe, I wrotelong persuading essays to him. It was pathetically useless. Proudly hecontinued to write his _Rise and Fall of the Western Plainsman_ in alucid, passionate prose which would evoke an imperishable picture--butin three thousand pages."
"I think classics are _nice_," protested Judy, "and one of these daysI'm going to read another one."
Huskily Jean told her the worst. "Writing classics consumes paper by theton. And if you ever get your 750,000 word story finished, you must thenstart shrinking it back to an acceptable 75,000 words. This is a nearlyhopeless task. Of course if you can get it back to 75,000 words thedigest magazines will have no trouble shrinking it to 15,000 words orfifteen pictures, and you then get your fingers in the till." He pausedand all hope fled from his face. "Droozle won't live nearly long enoughto get all of that shrinking done. And in the meantime that scribblingsnake is writing me out of house and home!"
"Are you going to let him get away with it?" the girl challenged.
* * * * *
"I don't know whether I am or not," replied the young artist, lookingworried. "I thought I had the problem solved at first. He got so sassywhen we were arguing about him writing classics that I had no hesitationabout applying a pinch of glue to his glittering little extremity. Thatput him out of the writing business until he came to terms."
"Well, now. You _were_ enterprising!" she approved.
"It didn't do any good though," Jean grumbled despondently, bowing hishead.
"He wouldn't bargain?" she asked incredulously.
"He didn't have to. He knew right where the cheese grater was."
"Ooh!"
"My sentiments exactly. But I don't know what to do with him now."
"You're all out of ideas?"
"Oh we could
sell this house and move down to skid row where the rentsare cheap," he flung out airily, but quite plainly worried sick.
"I've got a much better idea than that," she said cheerily, getting apad and pencil from her red handbag. "How about giving Droozle thisultimatum?" As she wrote, Jean read over her shoulder, "'Suggest youbegin writing fiction pleasing both to you and your master, or we shallbe forced to hand you over to the dog catcher!'"
Jean drew back amazed.