When the danger of apoplexy had subsided, Mr. Pettigrew choked, "This--this is ... _monstrous! Monstrous!_" And, having found the right word, he savored it: "Monstrous." There were too many kids around to pursue the discussion. Little pitchers, I thought. I was especially concerned about Adam-Two, who had been lurking as close to the group of Uncles as possible, soaking in every word like a damp sponge. Twice I whispered to Ruth to decoy him out of earshot, but she was too busy to keep an eye on him all the time. She'd no sooner turn her back than he'd edge up through the crowd again, a look of fierce curiosity on his thin face. From the Pretty Park we made our way to the Golf Course, the Football and Baseball Fields, then the Tennis Courts and Swimming Pool. Demonstrations were given at each stop, with much shouting and applause. After the final demonstration by the Diving Champ, we made a tour of the dormitories. Pettigrew went through a minor tantrum again when the Dolly Team showed him through the small Maternity Ward in the girls' dorm. At last we filed into the Auditorium for the Happy Show. The Kids who weren't Champs of some game or craft were all in the Happy Show. We watched, listened, and applauded for the Song Champ, the Somersault Champ, the Dancing Champ, the Yo-yo Champ, and many more. The _piece-de-resistance_ was a playlet entitled "The Uncles' Visit," where three of the boys imitated Uncles Chub, Hoppy, and Thin. (We hadn't been expecting Uncle Petty, so he wasn't in it. Probably just was as well, I thought.) It was a riot. * * * * * After the show, lollipops were passed out to everybody and it was Free Time until lunch. Mommy stayed below to keep an eye on things and I herded the Uncles up to the conference room in the Tower. Uncle Chub Boswell rapped the meeting to order. He paid me the standard compliment about how healthy and happy the Kids looked and what a fine job Ruth and I were doing here, then asked me to read the Annual Report. Before I could get my papers in order, Pettigrew piped, "Mr. Chairman, I'd like to ask a few pertinent questions." "All right, Petty. Make it brief." "Thank you. I should like to ask--er, what was your name again?" "Barnaby," I said. "Harry Barnaby. Just call me Daddy." He glared my grin into oblivion. "Mr. Barnaby, I would like you to explain to me the purpose of this installation." For some reason, the tone of his voice on the word "installation" infuriated me. "What the devil are you driving at?" I snapped. There was a faint suggestion of a sneer on his pasty little face. "I'm interested in ascertaining, Mr. Barnaby, just how you justify the continued conduction of this perpetual circus and picnic for the mentally retarded, at tremendous expense to the taxpayers."