There was only one thing to do—go on to the next tent. Luckily, it was just on the other side of the aisle. This one looked almost identical to the last one, except it had exotic flags out front and a large banner that said DJIMMI THE GREAT, WONDER OF THE EAST. MIRACLES. MAGIC. CURLY FRIES.

“We can’t go in,” Cuphead said. “It’s twenty-five cents admission, and we’ve spent too much already. That money’s for Elder Kettle’s birthday present.”

It was a quandary all right, and it had been weighing on him since the moment they’d arrived. Ms. Chalice gave him a sympathetic smile.

“I know, but we have to go in there, Cuphead. Mugman could be in real trouble,” she told him. “Also, they have curly fries.”

Cuphead nodded, but still wasn’t convinced. He didn’t feel right about spending other people’s money. On the other hand, the sign did say Djimmi the Great performed miracles—and boy oh boy, could they use a miracle.

Unfortunately, a fez-wearing camel stood between them and the entrance. Then a miracle did happen. A beret-wearing camel offered the fez-wearing camel a glass of water, which allowed Cuphead and Ms. Chalice to tiptoe past them without paying a dime. Or even two quarters.

On the inside, this tent was nothing at all like Sally Stageplay’s. It was a wonderland of rugs and pillows and lanterns and silks. In the very center of the stage was an oil lamp that looked a little like a teapot, and there were decorative baskets of various shapes and sizes all around it. Finally, towering above everything else were two gigantic, golden swords that came together to form a gleaming archway. Cuphead was enthralled.

“Do you see him?” Ms. Chalice asked.

“No, he’s probably still backstage.”

“I meant Mugman,” she said.

Cuphead turned fire-engine red.

“Oh yeah. Mugman,” he said. “I was just about to look for him.”

The truth was, he’d forgotten. He hadn’t meant to; it’s just that this place was so… incredible! Even though he knew they had to find Mugman, he couldn’t help being excited. This was different from anything he’d ever seen on the Inkwell Isles. It was like a weird, wonderful dream that charged you twenty-five cents to have it.

Suddenly, the lights in the room dimmed, and from out of the lamp there came a flash of fire and a puff of orange smoke. When the smoke cleared, Djimmi the Great was standing there on the stage! The audience, led by an ecstatic Cuphead, burst into wild applause.

What an entrance! If the rest of the show was half this spectacular, Cuphead was in for the thrill of his life. The only thing bothering him was an irritating tapping on his right shoulder. It was very persistent. He ignored it for as long as he could, hoping it would just go away. But it didn’t. And it wouldn’t. And he knew why. Finally, he turned and looked.

Good Cuphead was back—and shaking his head disapprovingly. Bad Cuphead was back, too, but he just winked and whistled and pointed to the stage.

The sight of the two of them gave Cuphead a sad, sickly feeling in his stomach. He leaned in close to Ms. Chalice.

“I know we’re here looking for Mugman,” he whispered. “But if we watch the show, isn’t that like stealing?”

“Only if we’re entertained,” Ms. Chalice whispered back. “We can watch as much as we want as long as we don’t enjoy it.”

As usual, Ms. Chalice was a fountain of wisdom. Still, it wasn’t going to be easy. Because what was happening up on that stage was as entertaining as anything Cuphead had ever seen.

Djimmi the Great was a powerful genie with a turquoise turban and a magic carpet. He told fortunes. He ate fire. He turned himself into an elephant and then an alligator and then an elegator (which was an alligator with the head of an elephant) and finally a pop-up toaster.

“And now, my friends, I shall perform my most remarkable feat,” Djimmi announced. “I shall charm the deadliest creature on the seven continents—the venomous cobra!”

Then, from out of thin air, he conjured a long, slender pipe. It wasn’t the smoking kind of pipe, or the kind that attaches to sinks or toilets or radiators. This was a musical pipe, and Djimmi lifted it to his lips and began to play a strange, haunting tune. Well, that was impressive enough, but it was only the beginning. From the baskets on each side of him, two large snakes appeared. They rose slowly upward, moving rhythmically to the sound of the music. As far as Cuphead could tell, they were completely hypnotized, which he found absolutely astonishing (of all the things he’d ever seen done with a magical pipe, a basket, and a couple of snakes, this was by far the best). But what he didn’t know was that the snakes weren’t the only ones being charmed. Without realizing it, Cuphead had begun doing a kind of wiggly, wavy dance. Of course, he was completely unaware of what was happening, which was probably for the best. Because at that very moment, one of the enormous serpents wriggled down from the stage, wrapped itself around him, and slipped its tail into his pocket. Then, with the grace of a cat burglar (which isn’t easy for a snake burglar), it snatched Elder Kettle’s birthday gift money, and made a sinister, slithering retreat to the basket.

Now, it would be one thing if this were the work of a single snake (who may have had an unhappy childhood or gotten in with the wrong crowd), but it was worse than that. You see, there were other snakes in the tent during that performance, picking the pockets of other wiggly, wavy dancers. Where they came from is anyone’s guess, but there’s no doubt who was behind it all. At Djimmi’s musical command, the slithery gang turned, brought their treacherous take to the stage, and deposited it into the decorative baskets of various shapes and sizes.

Elder Kettle’s warning about the carnival was proving more and more correct.

When the last snake had slinked away, Djimmi put down his pipe and took a low, grateful bow. The audience snapped out of its trance just in time to deliver a thunderous round of applause. As for Cuphead, he thought the show was spectacular. He couldn’t wait to tell Mugman.

Mugman!

“We’ve got to get going!” he cried.

But they weren’t going anywhere. The tent was packed with spectators, and it would take forever to get through them. Cuphead looked around.

“Follow me,” he told Ms. Chalice.

The two of them climbed onto the stage, hoping to get out the back way. Instead, they were stopped dead in their tracks.

Genies, it turns out, are touchy about having their performances interrupted, and Djimmi was no exception. No sooner had Cuphead and Ms. Chalice stepped onstage than the two giant, golden swords that towered above everything else swooped down and formed a barrier in front of them. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was when the blades moved forward, sharpening each other like carving knives before a turkey dinner.

Cuphead gulped. He hadn’t expected magical swords, and sweat flowed from his cup like an overfilled bathtub. Still, he wasn’t one to run from a fight. Summoning his courage, he stepped in front of Ms. Chalice, reached behind his back, and pulled out a sign.

FREE FENCING LESSONS! it said, and there was a big red arrow pointing to the exit.

Instantly, the swords swooshed past them and over to the exhibit hall, where a man in overalls was giving a demonstration on how to build a picket fence. They were captivated.

“Boy, swords sure are crazy about building fences,” said Ms. Chalice.

And with that, they were off again.

Fortunately, nothing else happened while they were taking the shortcut to the back of the tent.… Well, there was one little snag. It seems that as they were racing across the stage, Cuphead’s straw accidentally caught a loose end dangling from Djimmi’s turban. And since Cuphead kept running, the turban kept unrolling and unrolling and unrolling. By the end, Djimmi was twirling around like a magical tornado. He knocked over the rugs and the lamps and the silks and—for a grand finale—the baskets. As you can imagine, the sight of their personal belongings spilling out in a jumble of reptilian robbers caused quite a stir in the audience. Which is why Djimmi decided this would be the perfect time to go into his disappearing act. He bowed, turned himself into a puff of orange smoke, and fled to the safety of his lamp.

Now, if you had wandered in off the street a minute or two later, you might have wondered why an angry mob was standing on the stage kicking an oil lamp around like a soccer ball. Suffice it to say this is what angry mobs do. By the time they finished, the lamp was dented and scratched and generally brutalized, and there’s no reason to believe Djimmi made out any better.