Luckily both Shnodgrate and Schwarz attended a ball that Prince Beef threw a fortnight ago. And they met at the ball.
And it was very interesting.
I must say, the ball was very uninteresting, at first. When the professor arrived, some type of strange dance was being performed by the majority of guests.
Prince Beef was standing off alone, close to a bookshelf. He was holding a poetry book by Shnodgrate in his hands, and appeared to be reading it diligently.
But I’m almost positive that he wasn’t.
“Good evening to you, Prince Beef,” I said, joining him.
Prince Beef looked up, abruptly shutting the book. “My man,” he said, “it is a good evening, but it could be better.”
I must’ve looked surprised. “Well, how so?”
The prince gazed over at the dancers. Then he closed his eyes and said, with an impervious wave of his hand, “I should be dancing.”
“Well then, go about it.”
“I would, only…”
The prince suddenly looked at me and began to tap his foot in a disgusted manner, as if he was angered by my thickness.
“Do you not understand,” he said, “that if I danced I would embarrass all of the dancers on that very floor?”
“Now you know the reason why this professor doesn’t dance.”
The prince looked even more indignant. “Don’t be foolish—as is your wont. I meant that I’m so very good at dancing, that the others would look like foolish fools compared to me!”
I cleared my throat. “The professor would give anything to see it.”
“Why,” the prince said as he waved his hand, “why do you speak about yourself like you are not yourself?”
“Why do you pretend that you are a good dancer when your very presence here seems to indicate otherwise?”
I shouldn’t have said it, but I did.
Prince Beef’s eyes got big.
“You scheming swine,” he began, but luckily Schwarz came over; and he was in a good mood.
“Hey you funny people!” he said. “I’ve been drinking punch and having a grand old time looking for celery. But there is none, Chickit! Oh, no, no!”
The prince rubbed his ears vigorously. “Listen, my man,” he said to Schwarz; “listen about you. What do you hear?”
“Party noise?” I suggested.
“You weren’t asked!” the prince yelled angrily.
Schwarz smiled and it resembled a smug frown. “Well, I’m glad he did do, ‘cause I just don’t do. Chickit.”
“What?” the prince asked. “What are you saying?”
“Some dadblamery,” I offered.
“P. VJ,” the prince said, “when you speak and I don’t want you to, it tickles my ears. Desist from tickling my ears, as is your wont.”
Then he continued with his original thought. “What you hear, Schwarz, is the annoying tittle-tattle of people. If you want to tittle-tattle too, you may join them; otherwise, you must keep quiet.”
Then we were joined by V. Shnodgrate, and I seized the opportunity.
The prince looked pleased. “Mr. Poet,” he began. “I’m so glad—”
“Oh, by the way,” I interjected, “Schwarz this is V. Shnodgrate and V. Shnodgrate this is Schwarz.”
Schwarz looked quizzically at V. Shnodgrate for a second. “So you the man that makes no chickit sense?”
V. Shnodgrate abruptly turned around and left.
The prince was livid, I think.
“YOU…” he sputtered, looking straight at me.
“Maybe you should dance?” I suggested. “Schwarz, how about some more punch?”
And I left quickly.