DROOZLE
Droozle was probably the greatest writer in the world—anyworld!
By FRANK BANTA
Jean Lanni could see that his girl friend, Judy Stokes, thought it wasthe lamest excuse she had ever heard. If your ballpoint pen won't writeas you want it to, your life doesn't stop, she probably was thinking.You just get yourself another pen—You don't call off a marriage....
Skeptically the girl with the long, golden red hair pointed at hisbreast pocket. "This Droozle I must see. And who's that other member ofthe partnership there beside him? An Eversharp pencil named Blackie?"
"No, that is the other end of Droozle. Permit me to introduce you."Blandly the tall, young artist slid Droozle from his breast pocket,straightened him from his U-shape and handed his twelve-inch pen to her.
"A snake!" she shrieked.
"What else?"
"Why, I thought those ruby eyes were jewels! I must have squeezed rightup against him when I kissed you," she cried indignantly.
"You did. I felt him squirm a little."
"Oh! And here I thought it was your heart beating wildly."
"Well, maybe it was. It does that sometimes."
"Let's try again. And this time hold your snake behind you." Thelong-legged girl stood on tiptoe to reach him.
"It was your heart beating wildly," she decided a moment later. "Whichmakes me think you might not just be trying to get rid of me by a sillyexcuse."
"Believe me, I'm not," he urged. "Droozle is the key to all myfortunes."
"All right, tell me about it. But first tell me where in the universeyou got him."
"Oh, that was just after I graduated from art school. I was on my grandtour. We had an unexpected stopover at the Coffin planetary system. Idiscovered ballpoint snakes are the chief export of Coffin Two. When welifted ship, I had acquired my little puppy snake, Droozle."
"Is a puppy snake like a puppy dog?" she asked, fascinated. "I mean, dothey have their little domestic troubles, such as the calls of nature?"
"Oh, he was thoroughly pocket-broken before I acquired him. But he didlike his little jokes, and I learned to leave him curled up in acircular ashtray until maturity sobered him."
"Well, I should say! You drew sketches with him, didn't you tell me?"
He nodded. "At first he only had one color of ink—red—and if Isketched with him all day he would commence to look wretchedly anemic.He took two days to refill, normally. But I could use him again in onlyone day's time provided I didn't mind the top three-fourths of my penlaying on my arm."
"I hope his weight didn't get tiresome," she commiserated, holding inher amusement.
"I coped somehow," he answered sturdily. "Later he learned—after Isqueezed him on the liver a few times just to show him how—to switch toa lovely shade of ochre, which was delightful on pale green or pinkpaper. Why, what's the matter, Judy?"
"Go on," she choked. "Go go go!"
He beamed. "I write my letters with him too. Every day I wrote with him,first in red, and then in ochre to give him a rest. He seemed to love towrite more than to sketch. He would jump into my hand with tail happilypointed downward as I sat down to my writing desk. And when I later sawhis dark green stripes turning pastel and knew that anemia was imminent,and started to lay him d