a Cheshire cat when he entered the room where Colonel Quester waited, rumbling faintly like a miniature Vesuvius.
But the colonel softened at sight of the dress. "Ha!" he remarked. "A beauty! It is exclusive, you say?"
Vanderhof stepped back a pace. "The only one in existence," he remarked. "How do you like it, bottle-nose?"
There was a dead silence. Colonel Quester breathed through his nose. At last he asked, in a quiet voice, "What did you say?"
"Bottle-nose was the term," said Vanderhof happily. "Also, now that I think of it, you rather resemble a wart-hog."
"Brrrmph!" Quester rumbled warningly.
"Brrrmph to you," said Vanderhof. "You rhinocerous. So you want Model Forty-three, do you, fathead? Well, look."
He held up Model Forty-three, and with a strong tug ripped the dress from top to bottom.
Quester turned magenta.
Vanderhof ripped the dress again.
Quester turned blue.
Vanderhof finished the job by ripping Model Forty-three into ribbons and throwing it into the colonel's face. Then he waited.
Colonel Quester was having difficulty in breathing. His mighty fists were clenched. "Wait," he promised. "Just wait till I control my blood-pressure. I'll break you for this—"
He took a step forward, and simultaneously Vanderhof dived for the inner office. He slipped through the door, held it shut behind him, and saw before him the blue-black thatch of S. Horton Walker, who was looking down at some papers on his desk.
Vanderhof asserted his will-power. Instantly he changed his shape.
Walker looked up. "Vanderhof?" he snapped. "I want to talk to you—"
"Just a minute. You have a caller."
"Wait!"
Vanderhof didn't wait. He stepped out of the office, carefully closing the door, and turned to confront Colonel Quester.
"Ah," he said. "What can I do for you, Colonel?"
"Get out of my way," said Quester, in a low, impassioned voice.
"With pleasure," Vanderhof smiled, stepping aside. "If you're looking for Mr. Walker, he's right inside."
To this the colonel made no answer. He entered the inner office, and Vanderhof gently shut the door after him. There was a brief silence.
It was broken by a dull thud, and a short, sharp cry, mingled with a bellow of triumph. Other noises followed.
"Model Forty-three, hey?" a hoarse voice boomed. "By Gad, sir, you'll eat it!"
"Ah?" Vanderhof murmured, walking away. "That lace collar should make a tasty mouthful."
He dusted his hands delicately. He was thinking that he had managed to acquire a personality of his own, and that his weird power of metamorphosis would gradually fade and vanish of its own accord. He was no longer a jellyfish—a chameleon.
He was the manager of The Svelte Shop. A choked gurgle of stark anguish came faintly from the distance.
Tim Vanderhof lifted his eyebrows. "Heigh-ho," he observed. "It's five o'clock. Another day."
