A Banjo On The Loose

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T

ell me what is really going on," the raccoon whispers from behind the books in the bookcase in the study.
         Prescott looks around the room before replying, "I wish I knew. Things were fine this morning then Master Donovan came in with a banjo."
         "A banjo?" the raccoon asks, pushing his face further into the room.
         "Yes! A banjo. He said he found it in the garden. Mistress Donovan was about to tell us about the ..." Prescott replies but is interrupted by a sound.
         A long thin, elderly man in a tattered brown and white striped bathrobe and flip-flops enters the study carrying a banjo like one carries a broom. He spies Prescott and the raccoon saunters over to them.
         "Oh, hey 'toon. Prescott, I need a banjo pan. Where is it?"
         "I'm not a toon, you tuber," muttered the raccoon, glaring at Master Donovan.
         "I ... I think there might be some in the utility closet." Prescott answers.
         Master Donovan is now staring at the ceiling waving the banjo like a flagpole. He is singing softly to himself too low to hear clearly.
         "You need to get that thing out of the house or ... or SHE will come for it," the raccoon says insistently.
         "OK," Prescott says then focuses on Donovan saying, "Sir, I think I know where a banjo ... pan can be found but I will need to match it to your banjo. Please let me have it so I can get the right pan."
         Master Donovan looks at Prescott clutching the banjo to his chest, glaring at Prescott. Slowly he released it into Prescott's hands saying "Make it pistachio flavored."
         Prescott nods as he flees the room with the instrument.
         "So, 'toon, what's up?" Master Donovan asks the raccoon.
         "By Frigs horn, I hate you." The raccoon snarls.