He had become a definite need.
When at ten minutes past six the studio bell tinkled, Kenny, opening the door, stared at Whitaker in tragic dismay and struck himself upon the forehead.
"Mother of Men!" he groaned.

"I thought of course it would be Reynolds.

He's bringing me a check." John Whitaker looked unimpressed.

He merely blinked his recognition of a subterfuge.
There was a parallel in his experience, a weekend arrival at Woodstock when Kenny, farming in a flurry of enthusiasm, had come riding down to meet his guest on a singular quadruped whose area of hide had thickened strangely.

Brian called the uncurried quadruped a plush horse.