Rhythm on the River Page #2

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you can have a catboat now

on the installment plan.

Then you can sail around

and make up songs.

That's very nice.

But I'd rather not be

tied down to anything

unless it's a catboat.

I fgured if I could save

a little dough, I could go

to this place my uncle runs.

If you mention that uncle again,

I'll fre you!

My uncle's

a very nice man.

Here's your fountain pen.

So long.

Say, is that a hep catboat

you want or just a catboat?

Just a plain, ordinary

old catboat.

Don't go too far.

That's why we got you

that cell downstairs.

I did want to visit my uncle--

No. There's a lot of work

in this new show...

and we want you around.

Mr. Courtney likes you

so much he can't do

a thing without you.

He can't, huh?

Well, I'll see you later.

Wait a minute.

What?

What kind of a place is

this your uncle runs?

A nudist farm?

Oh, no, no,

nothing like that.

Just a little hideaway

on the river.

It's called Nobody's Inn.

Feather beds.

Hot and cold folding doors.

Have a card.

Built-in tea wagon.

Take some up to the union

next time you go there.

Ah, Nobody's Inn.

''Peace...It's wonderful.''

Why does he call it

Nobody's Inn?

He's a funny fellow,

my unk.

He won't let anybody in

unless he likes their face.

But you can come up.

I might be able

to do somethin' for you.

And a Merry Christmas

to you too... Scrooge!

Merry Christmas, Bates.

Thank you.

Wait a minute, Bates,

what have you got there?

Telegram for Mr. Courtney,

sir.

Here, I'll take it.

You stay right here.

[ Whistles ]

Bates, are you

a registered nurse?

Why, no, sir.

You better become one.

Got any smelling salts?

I think so.

Don't think, make sure and

have a bucket and sponge.

And, Bates, lock all the

windows and hide his razor.

Thank you so much.

Oh, Oliver--

Give me a glass of

champagne, will you?

I say, everything's fne.

I'm still in the groove.

You better dig yourself

a nice deep one.

Why, what's wrong?

Your lyric writer

Just fell dead.

Oh.

Bates!

Croon. Spoon.

Tune. Soon.

Agh! june.

How about loon

or goon?

It's no use, Billy.

I haven't been able to write

a good song of my own since

''Good-bye To Love.''

Oh! And a good song

must come from the heart.

Not with your ears.

My heart just stopped

singing when she died.

She didn't die.

She got fat.

What?

Why try that sentimental

drool on me?

You know she married

a guy in Naples who ran

a one-arm spaghetti joint.

I prefer to think

of her as dead.

There will never

be another like her.

There's one born every minute!

You're like a swan, only able

to produce a good tune...

when you're getting it

in the neck.

I'm looking for that

Christmas card that girl sent.

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