The thrill of the chase

First a Nap, Then We'll Talk

By Rick Horowitz

I shall say this only once: A gentleman never feels more at home than when he is at his club. There, one can shed the petty concerns of the workaday world. There, one can enjoy the companionship of others of like mind and outlook. So it was there, of course, that Roland Happlesnap brought word of the legendary giant sloth of the Amazon.

It had been a typical day -- a leisurely lunch in the members' dining room, then back to the inner sanctum to absorb the gentle pleasures of the afternoon. In the leather chair closest the window, old Pilsbury had absorbed somewhat more than his fill, and was snoring agreeably into his bow tie. Worcestershire was likewise at his ease, though an occasional flicker of eyelid suggested there was life in the old boy yet.

Your humble narrator was approaching a similar level of comfort, yet it was I who first caught sight of young Roland entering the room.

"Have you heard the news?" he queried, the latest issue of the Bugle folded smartly under his arm. "They're going after the giant sloth of the Amazon."

The reaction was almost immediate. Pilsbury slid closer to the diagonal, while Worcestershire blinked, then blinked again and drew his knees up under his chin.

"But they're really going to find it this time," Roland continued. "It's -- well, it's exciting!"

Such an outburst was thoroughly out of character for Roland, who, though several years our junior, was every bit our match in energy and drive. Many was the afternoon he'd drifted away right alongside us, much as his beloved father, Old Happlesnap himself, used to do. Yet here he was, practically in a tizzy. Even Worcestershre was roused to attention.

"Come, come, Happlesnap," he said. "It's not as big a deal as all that."

"But it is, Winky," young Roland replied. "The Indians say he's as tall as a man, though much larger -- 500 pounds if he's an ounce. And a face like a monkey and red hair and giant jaws and -- "

"I believe the boy is getting worked up," said Worcestershire. "Tell me, boy, are you getting worked up?"

" -- and quite fast, too, though his feet are on backward. They'll use tranquilizer darts."

This was all too much, even for Pilsbury. He pulled himself nearly upright, and shot Happlesnap the look that once transfixed a nation.

"A fast sloth, you say? Contradiction in terms! Impossible!" But the younger man was undaunted.

"Impossible? Tell me, Pilsbury: Are there jumbo shrimp?"

Happlesnap had him there, even Pilsbury had to admit it. He took a new tack.

"But what's this to do with us? You're not suggesting we join the expedition, are you?"

"At least consider it, yes," said Roland. "It would be the first for us in years, and right up our alley, so to speak. Hunting, I mean."

At the mere mention of the word, the years seemed to fall away, as each man conjured up long-gone adventures. For Worcestershire, it was the hunt for the perfect meerschaum pipe, a quest that took him to every corner of the city. For Pilsbury, it was tracking down Bolivian tax shelters, while Roland had gathered twine from all the world's great shipping firms. As for your narrator, let modesty keep that curtain drawn.

"See here, Happlesnap." This was Worcestershire, coming out of his reverie, the Bugle now in his hand. "See what this other scientist says -- not the one running the show, but another he's invited to join him."

"Read it out," said I.

"He says the likelihood of finding this sloth creature is too small to take him from his work. Then he declares, quote, 'You can't just go chasing each rumor of a sasquatch or yeti.' Now, that sums up my philosophy precisely. Don't you agree, Pinky? Pinky?"

But Pilsbury was still "conjuring." Gradually, though, the sound of his name must have seeped through. He glanced all about him.

"Feet on backward, you say? How curious! Is there any more brandy?"