from the ceiling, peppering the ledgers spread out on her desk. She dreaded The Barber’s coming. Each time he had returned, he had brought an angry note from a customer and a bill for repairs. What would it be this time? Broken window? Busted dock? Smashed airplane? The expenses piled up faster than the profits.

She watched the door with apprehension. If only another cargo pilot had been available! Then The Barber would have been fired so fast it would have made his neurotic head spin. But as it was, the Pilot’s Agency had no one available and private inquiries produced nothing. So, Rebecca was stuck with a mountain of bills and a hypochondriac pilot. But a hypochondriac pilot was better than no pilot at all, right?

The doorknob turned and The Barber entered - backwards. He averred that he did that to prevent running face first into germs. Germs were sneaky things, he said. In one hand was a handkerchief that he used to turn the doorknob. He held a bunch of documents in the other hand.

“Here you go, ma’am,” The Barber said, placing the stack of papers on her desk, being extremely careful not to touch the desk itself. He gyrated wildly to avoid a fly buzzing around his head.

Rebecca quickly thumbed through the documents. Her eyes grew wide when she saw a bill for five hundred dollars to repair a ceramic goose. “A goose!” she shrieked in astonishment.

Quicker than a flash, The Barber dove behind the easy chair, mindless of germ-filled dust. There, he cowered in fear. “G...goose? Where? I hate geese!”

The bearess sighed. “It says here you broke the beak off of a one hundred foot tall goose statue. How in the world did that happen?”

The Barber cautiously crawled out from behind the chair. “Didn’t see it, ma’am.”

Once again, Rebecca sighed in exasperation. That was The Barber’s excuse for most of his accidents. She had once suggested an eye examination, but he alleged that optometrists gave him the heebie-jeebies. Flipping through more papers, she discovered an angry note from Incredible Edible Egg Inc., stating that they would no longer do business with Higher for Hire due to failure to receive their cargo.

“You didn’t deliver the egg timers?”

“No, ma’am. The crates fell out of the plane when I hit the goose, then the trees, then the ocean liner, then that building, then...”

“Enough!” Rebecca groaned, rubbing her temples. She felt a headache coming on. “I can’t take anymore. Just...go upstairs.”

She watched as the cheetah slowly, painstakingly inched his way up the stairs to his room using trembling baby steps, not daring to peek over the banister, before she turned back to the stack of bills and irate letters. Taking out her adding machine, she added up the expenses and compared it to the profits in her ledger. Higher for Hire was bordering on bankruptcy.

“Second client I’ve lost this week,” the bearess murmured in a despairing tone.

For once in her life, she longed for one of Baloo’s outrageous excuses. At least he delivered the cargo mostly on time without damaging any property. Higher for Hire had been profitable with him as her pilot, and, furthermore, Rebecca missed him as a friend. But he had made his choice, and that choice didn’t include her or Higher for Hire. She had to accept that fact and move on. With a huge sigh, Rebecca forced herself to focus on the papers before her.

Saturday

Over the course of a week, the Sea Duckunderwent numerous dramatic changes: white paint with blue trim, new engines, and spoilers. But the biggest addition was a folding, retractable tennis court that spanned the Duck’s wings. Baloo had had it specially made and installed the day before. Kit thought that Uncle Happy ‘Huey Hartley’ Hoover must have been extremely wealthy, and he wondered when the money was going to run out. Baloo had been spending money like there was no tomorrow.

This Saturday was yet another bright, sunny day in Cape Suzette. The sun glinted off the Sea Duck and sparkled like diamonds on the blue water. The jazzy melody of Baloo’s second favorite tune, I’m Gone, mingled with the sounds of the waves lapping against the sides of the plane, the seagulls cawing, the occasional airplane engine, and the clanging harbor buoy.

Baloo and Kit were trying out the new tennis court. On one side of the net, Baloo bounced a tennis ball twice and served. Kit, who had never played tennis before, swung at the ball wildly. The ball whizzed past his head, bounced off the edge of the court, and splashed into the ocean.

“Oh-ho! Point for me,” Baloo said.

Baloo bounced a second ball and whacked it over the net. Kit swung again, missed the ball by a mile, and ended up falling face down on the court.

“An’ another,” Baloo said cheerfully.

Baloo served a third time. This time, Kit tried another technique. He stood still in the middle of the court, racket held up like a shield, eyes squeezed tight shut. Luckily for him, the ball hit smack on the racket, bounced over the net. Baloo dove for the ball, missed, skidded across the court on his stomach. The ball splashed into the water. But it didn’t matter how many balls were lost. If they ran out, he would just ask Shere Khan for more.

“Whew! You win, L’il Britches. Nice rally.” Baloo vaulted over the net to shake Kit’s hand.

Dazed, the boy was thinking, He had two, and I had one? Okay...

Baloo sauntered over to the soda fountain. Pulling a lever, the full-sized tennis court folded, then sank into the seaplane’s cargo hold. “Spin it again, old buddy of mine. That song makes my feet happy.”

Kit moved the gramophone needle to the beginning of the record.

Baloo bopped across the top of the fuselage to the soda fountain perched on the edge of one of the wings. “Another soda, my good man?”

“I do believe I’d like that,” Kit replied with a smile, taking the proffered drink.

“Isn’t it grand bein’ rich? They’re right. Money  does  buy happiness.” The cuckoo clock behind Baloo chimed three. “Oh, look,” he chuckled with glee, “it’s time for another birthday.”

“But you’ve already had four birthday parties today.”

“Yeah, if I keep this up, I’ll be old before my time.” Baloo scrambled down a ladder to the dock. He opened the cargo hold door. Out spilled a mountain of toys, burying Kit in its deluge. Balloons and a banner reading, ‘Happy B-Day to Me’ floated at the top of the door. “Boy, I love havin’ all this stuff!” Suddenly, Baloo noticed that his friend was missing. “Kit? Where’d ya go?”

Kit poked his head out of the toys, his eyes spinning and his head reeling.

“Hey, good idea,” Baloo said, bonking Kit lightly on the head with a paddleball, causing the boy’s eyes to cease spinning. “Maybe later we could play a little hide-and-go-peek.”

“Do you know what I’d really like to do? Visit Miz Cunningham. It’s been over a week,” Kit remarked wistfully, crawling out of the toys.

“Who?” the pilot asked as the paddleball ball boinked him in the eye.

“Rebecca, your ex-boss,” the boy replied in an exasperated tone. How could he forget his boss and friend? It had only been a week, after all!

“Oh, right, yeah, yeah. I kinda miss ol’ what’s-her-name, too. Whattaya say we wander over an’ invite her to a party?” Baloo took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. “After you.”

Running a short way down the dock, Kit said, bowing like Baloo, “No, no, after you.”

Baloo walked past Kit and bowed with exaggerated courtesy. “After you.”

This little charade went on until they got to the car.

“No, no, after you.”

“After you.”

“No, no, after you.”

“After you.”

“No, no, after you.”

“After you.”

Behind a fence crouched Garth, a grim-faced grey panther in a grey vest, tie, and a bowler hat. With him was his associate Gus, a stocky tiger sporting a green jacket and squashy brown cap. They were Shere Khan’s most effective hit-men. Cunning and lethal.

“There he is,” said Gus in a low voice.

“Yeah, we snatch the lug tonight,” replied Garth ominously.

Higher for Hire

Rebecca chased after a rhino  - her latest ex-client - who hurried out of the office and climbed into a truck, a scowl etched on his rugged face. He had been waiting five hours for his company’s cargo to arrive, and he wasn’t going to wait anymore.

“Please, don’t go!” Rebecca pleaded. “I’m sure my pilot will be back later today.”

The truck started and roared away, leaving Rebecca eating their exhaust.

“Or tomorrow. Or next month!” she yelled after them.

Hearing her mother’s desperate screams, Molly ran out of Higher for Hire. “Mommy, what’s the matter?” She tugged on her mother’s pants to get her attention.

“That’s the third client we’ve lost this week.” Rebecca placed a gentle paw on her daughter’s golden head. “It can’t get any worse than this.”

Then, it did...

The Barber’s plane zoomed out of nowhere. Rebecca and Molly once again hit the dirt as it buzzed Higher for Hire. Rebecca watched in horrified amazement as The Barber’s seaplane plowed into her Higher for Hire sign, knocking it into the harbor.

Both bearesses rushed down the dock.

“I quit!” yelled The Barber from his plane.

Rebecca cried, “What? You can’t quit! How about my shipments?”

“Sorry, lady, but you never told me I’d be carrying strawberries,” he said stonily.

“But that’s just cargo.” She picked up one strawberry and looked it over. Looked like a normal strawberry to her. Nothing about to strike fear in anyone’s heart.

“Strawberries give me the willies. Nah, Joe's gotta draw the line somewhere.” The Barber hooked the handle of a umbrella in the cargo door’s handle and closed it with a reverberating, definite bang. “Ooo...strawberries!” He flew low across the harbor, shearing the masts off of three little sailboats.

Rebecca plopped down on a crate, distress plastered across her brow. Deep down in

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