Defeated yet defiant

“Hurrah for Captain Spaulding,” I carolled as the door opened, which I thought quite droll, because his name, can you believe it, was Joe Spaulding. But the infectious bonhomie of Groucho Marx proved no defence against the horror that was to come; Joe was turning his back and pulling down his trousers even before the door was shut.

“Hold it right there, pal,” I said—but it was too late. I had no shotgun, and the cattle prod was on the blink.

“What do …