Willie learns the folly of yelling into locks.
Incident In Rhyme City
Blue was strolling down a street in Rhyme City, whistling a new riff. He was on his way to play a hot horn at the Hey Diddle Diddle Jazz Club like he did three nights a week. As he passed a doorway, a familiar white garment caught his eye.
“Willie, is that you?”
A garbled voice tried to answer.
“Wee Willie, speak up!”
“Stop nattering on, Boy Blue and help me here!”
Blue, being generally kind, moved to his side. When he saw what the difficulty was, he started to roar with laughter.
“It isn’t funny!”
“Of course it is,” Blue gasped.
“Just get me outta here!” Willie roared.
“All right, don’t get your nightgown in a twist. We warned you a long time ago not to knock at windows and cry at locks.”
“Somebody has to make sure the kids are in bed,” Willie protested.
“You should get dressed first, it’s not a good example to children,” Blue said.
Blue grabbed Willie’s head and pulled. There was a moist pop and Willie was able to straighten. When he turned a thankful face to Blue, the horn player burst into new fits of laughter.
“Better go see Mayor Goose about those lips! She’ll say ice them and take a week off. Wow, are they ever bruised! If I didn’t know better I’d say you’d gone a few rounds with Pumpkin Eater, our boxing legend.”
Willie lightly touched his tender lips and winced.
“Tell you what, come with me to the club and I’ll buy you some ice,” Blue said as he stifled more laughter.
“Can it be a dark corner, I don’t want anyone else to see me,” Willie told him.
“All the corners are dark there,” Blue said as he helped him up the street.