"But I promised," Charlie said in a voice that bordered on a whine later on that evening to Mr. Wonka in the Inventing Room. "You don't seem to realize, Mr. Wonka, that unless you come, I will be forced to listen to the junior band practice hideous renditions of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik repeatedly until June."

"Well, that sounds preferable to what she teaches you, it sounds like. Whoever heard of Amazonian tree frogs?"

"Mr. Wonka," Charlie said in an exasperated tone. "Put yourself in my shoes."

"Impossible! They're too small. My toes would ache."

"Look. I'm not asking you to like it. I'm just asking you to come."

Mr. Wonka shot him a look. "Isn't this usually a parent thing? Why can't your parents go instead of me?"

Continually amazed whenever Mr. Wonka could say the 'p' word without stuttering, Charlie nevertheless frowned at his mentor. "She didn't ask for my parents. She asked for you."

"Does she know you have parents? Maybe she just thinks you were left on the factory doorstep. Like a puppy. Or Stone Phillips."

"Of course she knows I have parents!" Charlie burst. "But she thinks you're the one who's responsible for me coming into her classroom every morning looking like I work at a carnival."

"Really, Charlie," Mr. Wonka said, looking offended. "You? A carnie? No. I wouldn't allow it."

"Look," Charlie said again, rubbing his forehead. Trying to talk Wonka into doing anything reasonable was like getting blood from a Stone Philips. "Even if it doesn't make sense to you, will you do it for me? As a friend?" he pleaded hopefully.

Sighing, but not looking up from his work, Mr. Wonka said, "If it didn't make sense, dear boy, I'd do it in a second. But if you want me to go that badly, I will. But you have to do something for me."

"Name it."

"You must first pluck my magic twanger."

Charlie looked horrified. "W-What?"

From beneath the counter, Wonka produced a small handheld candy dispenser with several prongs attached to it. Wonka plucked one of the prongs, which, in fact, made a "twang" sound and a small, round piece of candy shot up straight in the air, which he caught expertly in his mouth. "I haven't got a name for it yet. And your mother told me I might not want to call it a 'Magic Twanger.' Said something about angry mothers picketing outside the gates…"

Relieved, Charlie's shoulders sank. "Just be there at four o'clock tomorrow, all right?"

"Where?"

"The school."

"Oh, that. Sure thing. I'll be there."