Vag rocked up the knife and twisted it around in his fingers until he was sure everyone was watching him. Then he scooped up a load of peas and, lifting the knife, high, rolled them slowly into his month. Same chuckles same trick. He wondered how many times the chef, had served peas in the past year. That's one way of finding out how many times he'd pulled the routine, how many times the same, audience had applauded. How Many Times, From the song of the same name. Now if these bright boys could follow his thoughts, he could sing it and hand them another laugh. But enough enough. All were waiting.

O.K., Character, Master of the Repartee, take off. Your everloving public, or is it private, looks expectant. Pretty drunk out last night. wasn't it gents! Laughter from everybody-everybody except the High Forehead. Never had so much fun with my clothes on, though. Loud guffaws while to find out his name sometimes, the Vag thought, the High Forehead turned back to his pie. Ought Might be fairly intelligent. Vag looked at his damp, new cold potate, remembering the story he had told yesterday-of a B plus in a course he hadn't been to three weeks. The admiring smiles, the frown on the high Forehead.

Vag felt himself slipping lower and lower for catch pharses. Is it worth the effort? He got an idea. A game. See how stupid a remark can be and still get laughter. He waved a lamb chop at them. I'll tell you, this food is strictly from hunger. No belly laughs but plenty of snickers, Vag noted, amused himself for the first time.

"Tell'em about Olga," suggested the patronizing, watery-eyed youth on his right. No, you boys wouldn't get it. Smiles. Genuine leering smiles. Vag pushed away his pie and stood up, tried. He stopped at the door and looked back. Well, I'll be saucing you. They laughed. Vag left.