"Make way for the Grand Tutor!" Stoker shouted. "Let the Goat-Boy through!" But all were preoccupied with Croaker. Then indeed they scattered, not in deference to me but because Croaker happened to charge next in my direction, and I found myself facing him alone. The light embraced us both, and whether because he dimly recollected me or merely because I looked different from the others, he paused to blink. Then with a growl he came on. Notwithstanding my limp and the quantity of black liquor I had drunk, I felt no fear, only excitement, as in the days when I'd merrily baited the bucks of the herd. If Croaker was several times heavier than Redfearn's Tommy, and more powerful, he was infinitely less nimble: he could not turn in his tracks, hook with his head, spring high in the air, or kick behind him, and he was easily faked out of balance. All I had to fear from him was the span of his arms and the clutch of his hands, both which I found it possible to elude by ducking, feinting, and springing — the finest arts of goatdom. The real danger was that the crowd who quickly pressed round to urge us on would take up my springing-room; this peril I minimized by the simple expedient of leading Croaker full tilt into them on every pass until they maintained a respectful distance.
"Olé!" they cheered, more enthusiastic than ever. "Olé! Olé!" Never since my ill-starred tenure as Dean of the Hill had I known such applause. I curbed my exhilaration with that memory and looked before I leaped, passing under his arms, feinting here, springing there, spinning, dodging, dancing from him, and always gauging from the corners of my eyes my distance from the crowd. Five times I passed him, and a sixth, each time more daringly, and he never touched me. After the second I was sure he recognized me: his roars turned to cunning grunts, and his eyes grew bright as a sportive buck's. When on the fifth pass I spun him off-balance and brought him crashing down, he groaned as in protest and lost interest in the game; I believe I might have leaped upon his shoulders then and rode him with impunity, but loath to put an end to those olés I managed to tease him into one charge more. His heart was not in it; his eyes wandered even as he lunged, and fixed upon loud-hammed Madge, whom a lady and a gentleman had led unsteadily into the light. At sight of Croaker in academic gown she was seized with mirth — and wondrous was the dance of her bull's-eyes in the glare! Croaker halted before them, blinked twice or thrice, gave a whimpering grunt, and snatched.
"Hunh, Croaker!" I cried, but he would not be provoked. Madge he flung over-shoulder like a sack of grain; she whooped but seemed not fearful as he bore her off. When I came up behind and dared even to thump his back with my fist, defying him to turn, she grabbed my hair and kissed me merrily, then waved and thrust out her tongue at the parting crowd. As for Croaker, I had as well challenged a black-oak trunk or buck in mid-service for all he heeded me. The spotlight followed them, as did many of my audience, and I considered chasing after; but others pressed drinks and attentions on me, a heady new pleasure I could not forgo. My original indignation had quite passed. Two of Stoker's staff, I noted, were restoring G. Herrold to his repose on the dais-couch, and I twinged with a moment's wonder whether all was well with Max; then Stoker joined the crowd around me, and I gave myself over to the dizzy spirits roused in me by exercise, and nourished by liquor and acclaim.
Especially cordial were the pair who a few minutes earlier had escorted Madge onto the scene, and whom Stoker identified now as Dr. Kennard Sear and Hedwig, his wife.
"Enchanté," the doctor smiled. "Remarkable performance." A long dry gentleman he was, superbly manicured and groomed, with close silver hair and fine soft garments. His face, frame, and fingers were thin tan, even his voice was, and without moisture; only his eyes were less than desiccate, their pale brightness turning into glitter at every blink. The whole effect of him was of a lean pear dried in the sun, its gold juice burnt into thin exotic savor — and in fact it was pleasant to smell him, all but his breath, which was slightly foul. "Doesn't he have classic features, Hed?" he asked his wife.
"He looks like Maurice in bronze!" Mrs. Sear exclaimed. "He could be your younger brother, Maurice." She too, and her voice, were dry and not unhandsome, but where her husband seemed cured, like supplest vellum, Mrs. Sear was brittle — sharp-edged as the stones on her ears and hands, but more fragile.
Stoker affirmed the resemblance. "George's got more in common with me than some brothers I could mention."
"You're really Max Spielman's protégé?" Dr. Sear asked smoothly. "We must have some interviews."
"And evenings," Mrs. Sear insisted, narrowing her bright eyes and touching my fleece with her long red nails. "Something more intime than this madhouse of Maurice's. Are you matriculating, or just on tour?"
"Ma'am?" Despite my liquor I felt at ease and self-possessed, they so obviously admired me. But I had difficulty following conversations. It occurred to me to remark that I had once loved a doeling named Hedda; but I forbore on the grounds of possible tactlessness, and thought myself a subtle fellow.
"You haven't heard, Heddy?" Stoker cried. "This is no ordinary goat-boy: he's come to show you and me how to pass the Finals!"
"Dear me," Dr. Sear said mildly. "Another one?"
"Oh, George!" his wife scolded me. "That's too tiresome! You're charming enough just as you are. Isn't he, Ken?"
"A regular faun," her husband agreed. "We'll certainly have you out some evening."
"Watch him, though," Stoker warned. "He bites bellies."
"Just be a goat-boy," Mrs. Sear said, like a child giving an order, and patted my shoulder. "It's much more original. Everybody's a Grand Tutor lately."
I only smiled at them, they were such amiable people. The orchestra struck up a spirited tune, and the bystanders dispersed, some to dance, others to join a new excitement across the room, whither Croaker had fetched his prize. Dr. Sear took two glasses from a passing waiter and gave one to me. His wife congratulated Stoker on his knack for "turning up originals," declaring he'd surpassed himself this evening with Croaker, myself, and "that delicious creature with the boots and bull's-eyes."
Stoker grinned. "I knew you'd hit it off with Madge."
"I couldn't keep my hands off her! Is she George's… mate?"
"Just a pipefitter from the Furnace Room," Stoker said lightly. "I'll get her to give you her number after the cremation — if there's anything left of her when Croaker gets through."
I declared that I had no mate.
"You don't?" Mistaking my meaning, both Sears expressed their sympathy and assured me that that condition need last no longer than I wished it to. "The co-eds will go wild over you," Mrs. Sear said enviously, and her husband agreed, adding in a frank and cordial tone that if however I preferred a maturer and more knowledgeable partner, one from whom even a young satyr like myself might learn a thing or two, he did not judge it out of place to propose…