I banged up the plate, saw a blur of something slinking down between the type bar levers again. Whatever it was, it managed to squeeze itself out of sight in a most amazing way. "Hey!" I said. "I know you're down there. What's the big idea?" Fuzzy squeezed his head up from the levers. The head looked like that of a mouse, but it had teeth like a chipmunk and bright little black beads for eyes. They looked right at me. "You go right ahead," he said in a shrill voice. "This is going to be a great poem. Did you get all that alliteration there in those two lines?" "Listen, will you get out of there? I've got work to do!" "Yes, I think I've hit it at last. It was that four-stress iambic that did it. It was iambic, wasn't it?" "Go away," I said miserably. Fuzzy pulled the rest of himself out of the bars and stood on hind feet. He crossed his forepaws in front of him, vibrated his long, furry tail, and said defiantly, "No." "Look," I pleaded, "I'm not Don Marquis and you're not Archie and I have work to do. Now will you _please_ get out of this typewriter?" His tiny ears swiveled upward. "Who's Don Marquis? And Archie?" "Go to hell," I said. I slammed the cover down and looked up into the cold eyes of Oscar Phipps who was standing next to my desk. "Who, may I ask," he said ominously, "do you think you're talking to?" "Take a look." I lifted the plate once again. Fuzzy was there on his back, his legs crossed, his tail twitching. "I don't see anything," Phipps said. "You mean you can't see Fuzzy here?" I pointed to him, the end of my finger an inch from his head. "Ouch!" I drew my hand away. "The little devil bit me." "You're fired, Mr. Weaver," Phipps said in a tired voice. "Fired as of right now. I'll arrange for two weeks' severance pay. And my advice to you is to stay off the bottle or see a psychiatrist--or both. Not that it'll do you any good. You never amounted to anything and you never will." I would have taken a swipe at Fuzzy, but he had slunk out of sight. * * * * * During the two erratic years I had been on the newspaper, I had passed the city park every morning on my way to work, feeling an envy for those who had nothing better to do than sit on the benches and contemplate the nature of the Universe. Now I took myself there and sat as I had seen others do, hoping to feel a kinship with these unfortunates. But all I did was feel alone, frustrated and angry at Phipps. Maybe I had been too convivial, maybe I had enjoyed night life too much, maybe I hadn't given the paper my all. But I wasn't ready for the booby hatch even if I had seen a fuzzy little thing that could talk. I drew a copy of _Editor and Publisher_ from my pocket and was scanning the "Help Wanted: Editorial" columns when out of the corner of my eye I saw a blob of black moving along the walk.